


Mi Aedijekit

by local_doom_void



Series: the Fine Art of Historical Revisionism [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Ancient History, Author has a Language Kink, Black Comedy Dictatorship, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Culturebuilding, Dark Comedy, Divination, Don’t copy to another site, Draught of Living Death, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Drugs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Existential Crisis, Force-Feeding, Gender Roles, Gender Roles are Different in the Future, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, I will fight over this, Language Barrier, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Magic and Science, Major Character Deaths Not Shown, Memory Loss, Military, Military dictatorship, Nagini is a Brat, Nagini is and always has been a snake, Nagini is bae, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Graphic Torture, Not Acted Upon, Not that he knows that, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Panic Attacks, Parseltongue, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Scenery Porn, Science Fiction Elements, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Everything, Slow Romance, Solarpunk, Suicidal Thoughts, This is going to get really fucking trippy my friends, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Voldemort Being a Creep, Voldemort is Not Good, Voldemort is his own warning, Worldbuilding, idiots to lovers, literally the slowest of burns, no editing we die like men, of potions, palmistry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 83,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18851794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/local_doom_void/pseuds/local_doom_void
Summary: The liquid flowed thickly down his throat. It tasted of tainted honey and carried the ineffable weight of centuries down with it, until they hung heavy beneath his ribs and drowned his lungs in ice crystals.Harry Potter and Voldemort, and the inevitable baggage of a millenium.(alternatively)The fine art of historical revisionism.(No longer updating quickly due to grad school re-commencing. Slowly adding hand-drawn title images to already-posted chapters.)





	1. Kí

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Mi Aedijekit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532471) by [basit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basit/pseuds/basit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _kí_ (n.) care, concern, consideration; usually of a living being. See also _Hefkí_ (phr.), "Have a care."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for this weird and trippy trainwreck and I'm also not sorry at all. This piece is pure indulgence on my part, because if I've learned anything over the now-gone teenage years of wanting to post fanfiction and feeling like my ideas are too self-indulgent to do so, it's that you gotta _commit_ and that author-appeal is real.
> 
> Because I only put up tags as they begin to apply to the chapters that are posted, I'm explicitly telling this to the readers now: There will be OCs. There will be a lot of OCs. If you don't like OCs in your fanfiction, and you hate leaving reads unfinished, you may want to leave this prologue alone. It does not have OCs, but afterwards? They'll be in every chapter.
> 
> That said, I actually hope that I can tempt you to read this regardless of the OCs. The focus is on Harry and Voldemort, after all. I know they're the ones you're really here for.

* * *

  


“Potter,” Voldemort said smoothly. Then he seemed to think better of it. “… Harry,” he murmured, scarlet eyes flickering all over Harry’s face, as if trying to memorize it for a future piece of art. The brows furrowed slightly as his eyes lingered on the scar, and - Harry was still trying to get used to the sight of a Voldemort with a nose, and hair, and scale-less skin that looked like it really had blood flowing under it, because this was new. It was terribly new.

“Tom,” he bit back, trying to be insolent. Strangely, he was almost hoping for a _Crucio_ , as if everything would start making sense again if he could only remind Voldemort why he so desperately wanted Harry dead.

But even though the muscles in Voldemort’s cheeks tightened, and his hand twitched for his wand, he didn’t finish the motion. Instead, his new lips curled into the graceless mockery of an indulgent smile. “Ah yes, I did forget how excellent a job you have done of stalking me. I must say, Harry, a man could get the wrong idea.”

What the fuck? Harry thought, and pressed himself back against the chair. He reached desperately for his magic, as if that might unstick him and his bindings from the chair somehow. (It should be able to, he thought stubbornly, it’s magic!)

“I would call it premeditation more than stalking,” he said.

“Would you?” Voldemort asked. He turned from Harry, returning to the desk on the other side of the room. “While perhaps it would be fascinating to pick your brain a bit more, Harry, I’m afraid our time together has… come to an end, shall we say.”

Harry’s eyes darted around the room once more. Still only the bookshelves, the green-curtained windows, the desk, the chair he was tied and sticking-charmed to. There was nobody else in sight, but it also wasn’t as if he could dodge an _Avada_ while affixed to a chair. Maybe once, he allowed himself to think. He could rock the chair enough to dive to the floor, perhaps, if he really threw himself into it. But then the chair would be really difficult to move, and he would still be stuck to it. And then -

Voldemort had been silent, staring out the window with his hands folded behind his back. Harry couldn’t see the yew wand, nor the stolen elder wand from Dumbledore - but he couldn’t know how close either of those two wands were to hand for Voldemort. He couldn’t be complacent.

“What’s the wait?” he tried instead, hoping he could just get Voldemort to slip again. “Afraid I’ll magically vanish or something? Afraid you’ll look stupid if you use an Unforgiveable on a tied-up 18 year old?”

“I almost think I may miss you,” Voldemort said instead, in a non sequitor sort of way. He didn’t turn at all. “You should be honored, Harry. Lord Voldemort does not so easily give out his regards.”

“If that’s honor, then I’d rather not be honored, thanks."

Voldemort made a _tsk_ noise, and turned, but towards the desk. A drawer slid open, obscured from Harry’s view, and Voldemort’s thin fingers plucked something from within. Whatever it was, the Dark Lord proceeded to hold it in his palm, staring at it with an almost glazed look in his eyes. Then he sighed, cupped the item in both hands, and turned back to Harry. His red gaze was pensive. Despite the lack of rage within the man standing on the other end of the room, Harry felt a weight of panic almost as strong as what he had felt in the graveyard when he was 14.

“I have,” Voldemort proclaimed grandly, spreading his arms, “recently had the pleasure of tearing apart the mind of Severus Snape, Harry. Would you like to know what I have learned?”

Harry’s insides lurched at the thought of anyone - even a traitor like Snape - having their mind literally torn apart by the man in front of him. “I really don’t,” he manageed to get out, despite the sickness in his stomach.

“No?” Voldemort only smiled, as if he found Harry amusing. “Very well, then. My next point, Harry, would be: do you recall your very first potions class?”

“Uh?” Harry said, caught off guard by the inquiry. “Er - what? I guess? Why?”

“Three questions,” Voldemort continued, beginning to pace across the carpet. He was not aiming directly for Harry, but he was approaching closer than Harry would like, especially given the topic of this conversation. He felt the hair on the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably. “Three questions which you failed to answer - not that I can truly blame you, given the content.”

That confused Harry, in a temporary refuge from anxiety - had Voldemort just… absolved him?

“I don’t see how this is any of your business,” he said instead, and tugged uselessly on the ropes again.

“All that you are is my business, Harry Potter,” Voldemort said slowly. “The devil is in the details. Do you perhaps recall the answers to those questions? I suppose,” he corrected himself, pacing closer still, “that only the first question is useful here. There is your hint.”

“This is a weird interrogation,” Harry pointed out. He didn’t know what game Voldemort was trying to play, but he would rather just abstain.

“Trust me, Harry, you would know if this were an interrogation.” Voldemort was finally back in front of him, and the man leaned in until their foreheads were almost touching. Harry wished he could move away - he didn’t want to be anywhere near this man, nevermind the pain in his scar, which oddly hadn’t pained him much at all since he was captured. But that was only a minor detail - Harry would get back to it later. Instead he clenched his jaw and stared at Voldemort as defiantly as he could muster.

After a few long moments, Voldemort stepped back, and Harry breathed again.

“I suppose, if I cannot coax you to cooperate in any meaningful, consenting way, then we may as well get this over with,” Voldemort told him. Harry opened his mouth to try to distract the man again with something else, but the breath to do so withered in his throat as Voldemort’s hands fell open and revealed a one-dose vial of a deep black potion. So that explains the potions references, Harry thought wildly - but what potion was that, anyway?

That first day in potions class floated to the front of his mind, despite his determination not to play.

_Powdered root of asphodel… infusion of wormwood… sleeping potion so powerful that it is known as -_

Harry choked. “That’s - !”

“Ah, you do know,” Voldemort said, smiling in a sickening parody of pleasantness as one hand twisted the cork out of the vial. It emerged with a squelching noise. “Say ah, Harry.”

“I’m not taking that!” Harry yelled. He tried to scoot the chair back along the floor, but found that he could not gain enough traction. He had not felt such panic since - he couldn’t even place a time when he had felt more desperate. What did it say about him, that he had been fine with the possibility of death, but now presented with a fate which was not death, he felt such bone-deep urgency? The prospect of dying in this chair was far less intimidating than the prospect of letting Voldemort get that potion into his body - of sleeping so deeply that he appeared to be dead, and perhaps would never be allowed to wake up.

“You will find,” Voldemort said lowly, “that you will take it, Harry, whether you wish to or not. But you may choose to get it over with somewhat comfortably, or you may choose to - struggle.”

Harry could not tell if Voldemort cared which option he chose, but Harry certainly cared. Never, he went to say - before he saw that Voldemort had withdrawn his yew wand from some hidden pocket in his robes while Harry was panicking over the initial realization. He knew then that the man could probably charm his mouth to stay open if he opened it at all, even if it were just to speak. Harry pressed his lips together and said nothing.

The Dark Lord sighed, and waved his wand idly at Harry’s torso. More ropes sprang into existance, tightening almost unbearably until Harry couldn’t move his chest or shoulders at all. He could only turn his head - and pressed against the back of the chair as it was, he couldn’t even tilt it back very much. Then Voldemort had him by the neck, and Harry was torn between wondering why the skin-to-skin contact did not burn, and trying to twitch away from the man’s grasp. He chose to try to get away - Voldemort’s fingers tightened painfully on his jaw, nails digging slightly into his skin.

“Harry,” Voldemort nearly crooned. He leaned in again, until their foreheads were truly touching - Harry screwed his eyes shut and tried desperately to focus only on what he needed to focus on to ensure he could both breathe, and keep all trace of that potion out of his system.

_“Harry,”_ Voldemort hissed. _“I know that you can understand me, Harry. Open your mouth.”_

Harry twitched his head as best he could in the direction of a ‘no’, and Voldemort made quite the put-upon noise.

“If you’re certain,” the man said in English.

Suddenly there was a terrific pressure on Harry’s jaws, just beneath his ears. While the pain wasn’t on the same level as a cruciatus, it was still a sort of pain that Harry had never felt before in his life. The unfamiliarity of it all forced his jaw to drop open as he instinctively tried to relieve some of the pressure. It worked - but then the smooth glass lip of a vial was shoved into his mouth. He tasted bitter, viscous herbs on his tongue, and went to try and spit it out. But the wood behind his skull vanished - Voldemort forced Harry’s head to tip back, and once again taken by surprise, Harry swallowed some of the potion - and then kept swallowing, quite against his will. His throat muscles were moving on their own. He desperately didn’t want them to be - he was telling them not to.

Harry dazedly felt the vial being tugged away from his lips, and a hand releasing his hair. His head hurt - there was a strange pressure on his throat. It vanished when Voldemort waved his wand, and Harry knew immediately what must have happened.

“You fuck,” he bit out, somewhat shocked by his own language. “You used - you forced - ”

“The magical means for forcing somebody to swallow are rather more pleasant than the muggle means,” Voldemort said. He tossed the vial to the side - Harry heard it clatter to the floor with a sound far more distant than it should have been. His vision was blurring, and he was finding it difficult to tense his muscles at all.

No, he thought. No, no, no -

“Why?” he managed to force from his lungs. Are you doing this, he wanted to continue, but the fine muscle control needed to make words just wasn’t coming to him. He wanted to sleep so badly. He was so tired, and he was starting to feel quite warm. It was a nice change from all the anxiety of the war, and being captured, and he…

No! Harry tried to wrench himself back to awareness, but only managed to sit up a little straighter for a moment. His vision had black around the edges, and with another breath, his head lolled.

Ironically, impossibly, Voldemort was slowly stroking Harry’s hair and hissing something into his ear in a parselmouth croon. Harry could not bother to focus on the words - something about lying untouched. He didn’t like any of it. There were weights upon his eyelids - he fought to keep them open, of course, but with every passing second their fluttering increased. Harry didn’t want to close his eyes. He didn’t want to go to sleep. If he went to sleep he’d never see anyone again - there would be no way Voldemort would let him awaken, if this was what he wanted, Harry’s living but insensate body instead of Harry’s dead corpse.

He was out of the chair, and being carried in somebody’s arms. Voldemort? Probably, Harry thought viciously, and he wished he could lash out with his now-free hands, that the muscles wanted to do anything but dangle limply. Maybe if he hit hard enough, at the right angle, he could even force that perfect new nose to break… Wouldn’t that be a good fuck-you right in Voldemort’s face, for real, ha ha.

_“no,”_ Harry managed to slur out in Parseltongue as his eyes finally fell closed, and he could not force them back open. To his horror, they were burning at the corners. _“no,”_ he hissed again. _“st’p…”_

_“Hush, Harry,”_ came Voldemort’s soothing voice. _“I shall take… such good care of you.”_

Harry felt a sting of distant horror in his stomach, before even that receded. The arms around him, the last part of the world that he could feel with any certainty, slipped away into the blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Draught of Living Death is a real downer, huh?
> 
> I know I really need to stop posting new things, and that I still haven't actually finished editing the next chapter for _Importance_ , which is my current focus and the only fic with an actual update schedule. But dammit all, I have four bloody chapters of this monster fic written, and it needs to get out of my head!
> 
>  _Importance_ will still update on schedule or I will eat one of my tarot decks in recompense. (I own no hats to eat.)


	2. Káfá

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _káfá_ (n) coffin, casket; a tomb in which a person is buried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OCs are here. OCs are not going away. Let the trippiness begin.
> 
> This chapter is probably quite confusing, especially towards the end. There's a method to my madness, but I'm sorry to say that we're going to have a potentially-confusing couple of chapters until Harry learns more about what's going on around him, and can tell us about what he's learned.
> 
> I've added some additional signpost tags for the far future. This is outside of my usual tagging MO, but given how much this idea still bewilders _me_ sometimes, I want people to know what they have to look forwards to if they stick around, especially as we're not going to exactly get there for a while.

* * *

  


Harry Potter slept. He did not dream. In his sleeping mind was the slight awareness of softness at his back, and the slow, nearly glacial beat of his heart. His blood moved through his veins sluggishly, nearly at a standstill, but it still did move. His body lived, and still he slept.

Harry, said a voice in his mind. Or was it in his memory? Harry could not remember.

Hush, Harry, it said to him. I shall take such good care of you…

The voice, or the memory of the voice, echoed, looping over on itself. Harry felt strangely soothed by it, and imagined the phantom sensation of arms around his body. Arms – had there been arms? He had arms. He even thought that maybe he could feel them. He was so comfortable… but no – something was different. He didn’t know what was different, why he felt it wrong, but the ground beneath him was hard. That was – different.

I shall take such good care… Such _care…_

Then, Harry remembered: _Voldemort._

He shuddered, and tried to move. His limbs were pinned by gravity to a hard cold floor, and he could barely twitch his fingers. The tiredness clawed at his mind, and he pushed back with a fury born of desperation. Unable to summon any coordination, he finally managed to twitch, and he almost sat upright. But it was too much, too soon – his head spun as soon as it lost contact with the ground, and his muscles seized up in protest at having to move so much. He collapsed back to the floor, a slurred “ _guh_ ” making its way from his dried-out throat.

“Oh, sit,” someone said nonsensically – a woman’s voice, Harry thought. Who was here? He felt so achey, and there was a crust of rheum on his eyes, keeping them glued tightly shut. He just wanted to see, he thought wildly. Where was he? Who was here, who had woken him up? It couldn’t have been Voldemort – Voldemort wouldn’t have. The woman was still speaking, nonsense that sounded like it should be making sense. “Hello,” he heard somewhere in the middle of it all. Was something wrong with his ears?

Harry grimaced and coughed, trying desperately to get some moisture into his throat. “ _Wuzz’appenin’,_ ” he slurred. Was he speaking Parseltongue? He couldn’t tell. “ _Wuzgoin’on?_ ”

Voldemort, he tried to say. Where’s Voldemort? But his tongue wasn’t cooperating with the sound of the Dark Lord’s name.

Finally, he managed to pull up an arm enough to rub the rheum from his eyes. It was dark, a room of black stone, lit by flickering bluish lights alternating with orange – fairy lights on the ceiling. He tugged at the muscles in his neck until he could turn his head. The room was small, black flagstones layering the floor and strange, church-like carvings climbing the walls. Harry thought they looked – gothic, was that the word? There was a massive, dark block of – stone? metal? Harry couldn’t tell, but it sat against the wall near his head and gleamed ominously.

The talking had continued while he tried to get his bearings. The woman from before kept saying “Hello,” and – something else that Harry couldn’t parse, even though it _sounded_ familiar. There were other voices in the background too, also women, and his brain managed to parse some of what they were saying - ‘deaf?’ he heard, and ‘bit’ and something that might have been ‘you saw it’, and later a few ‘no’s, a ‘one’, a ‘rat’, and another ‘oh, sit’.

There were four of them, but he was distracted thoroughly by the girl kneeling at his side and leaning over him. He blinked – she noticed that he was looking at her, and smiled down at him widely, her brown eyes sparkling. She had bright ginger hair, and a mass of freckles across her face, and she looked –

She looked like Ginny. Not exactly, of course – Ginny had a slightly more pointed nose, a slightly thinner chin. Still, something about the way the smile dimpled her cheeks made him able to think of nothing else but the youngest Weasley. A pang struck his heart, and he finally managed to force one elbow under him, until he was propped slightly upright. The girl stopped fidgeting her hands and moved to help him – her hair was tied back in a braided bun, and she was wearing a dark brown outfit that appeared to have padding on the elbows and knees. She had rather a lot of pouches at her belt – and what was…

Her belt was glowing. Rather, it had blinking lights on it – they were a pale green, and they rippled with a regularity that sent Harry’s mind swimming. There were other places on her body where the lights appeared, he saw now – were they part of her clothes? How did that even work?

Shaking his head, he tried to ignore the strangeness of it all. The girl was speaking to him – his ears still weren’t working properly, but he tried to put his focus into it.

“How,” she said - and then nonsense again. “Do some – ” something? Then nonsense, no matter how hard he focused, until – “You have it,” something, “now.”

“What?” he tried. His voice only came out as a raspy whisper, but the sounds were thick, even to his own ears, and he worried that he wasn’t intelligible to them either. “Sorry – my ears – ”

“Uhhh,” the girl said. Harry stopped himself and looked at her, willing her to go on. Maybe she’d caught the jist - maybe she’d speak slower, now, or understand that something was wrong?

What had that other voice said? ‘Deaf’?

Cold fear seized Harry’s heart. He didn’t feel deaf – he felt he could hear everything that was going on, at least. But he certainly wasn’t catching every word, either, and how would he know what being deaf was like? He had never been deaf before.

The red-haired girl said something else that Harry couldn’t catch.

“Please,” Harry whispered, feeling desperate now. “What - ” But she could fix it if he just spoke, couldn’t she? She could obviously hear him. Maybe this was just a side-effect of coming out from under the Draught. “Something’s wrong with my ears,” he tried to explain, speaking slowly to prevent his tired muscles from slurring the words. He knew for certain that he was speaking English now, at least. “I don’t understand you, not - not all of it.”

The red-headed girl only blinked at him slowly. Behind her, another girl - Harry forced his eyes to focus, and saw that she was Asian - babbled nonsense too quickly for him to catch even the familiar-sounding words. He thought he heard a ‘what’, but couldn’t be certain.

Something she had said set off a third, new voice - an Indian girl with her hair wrapped into a bun. Sounds fired from her mouth at a rapid pace, and Harry thought they should have been English. They sounded like English words. The rhythm moved in all the right places, but nevertheless, they were all wrong.

Had he been cursed, he thought with dull terror. Had Voldemort cursed him to be unable to understand normal English? To hinder any escape attempts if he should ever wake up? It seemed like something he would do.

“Please,” he tried again, terror crashing through him. He needed to get away. He bent towards leaving with all of his soul. “Please, you have to help me – I can’t stay here! I have to _go_ – He’s _coming,_ You-Know-Who could come back any moment!”

“Issokee, issokee,” came the slowest gibberish yet from the red-head, as she smiled faintly at him. She moved her hands in a calming motion, palms out, but Harry did not feel calm. He needed them to panic like him, he needed them to understand. He knew that they could hear him. The red-head could tell that he was panicking.

“Voldemort!” he cried out, with the only word he knew would definitely shock, if only they could understand him.

The room fell silent and everybody stared at him. Finally, Harry thought, gripped by a fierce triumph. And they knew Voldemort. That meant he still had a chance.

“Where’s Voldemort,” he asked, doing his level best to look each girl in the eye, to convey how very serious he was. “Is he here? Is he close? We need to leave before he comes back, please, come on!”

The other red-head, not the one kneeling by him – Harry noticed with a start that they appeared to be identical twins – glanced nervously at the Asian and the Indian girl. They exchanged words, still nonsense, but nobody was doing anything more. Nobody was looking scared, nobody was panicking, nobody was moving.

Well, Harry thought. Fine. He could get out of here on his own, curse or not. With arms that trembled only faintly, he pushed himself upright, ignoring the Ginny-doppelganger who moved to hold her hands near his shoulders, as if to catch him should he fall.

Upright, his gaze fell to his lap, and Harry exhaled harshly.

On his legs were not his breeches. Not the old, worn gray ones with the patch on the knee that he had been wearing when he was captured – that he had still been wearing when he was… dosed. No, this was the hem of a much longer robe than any Harry might usually wear. It was fronted, where he usually preferred to wear open robes over a tunic, and the _material_. Harry grasped the hem and rubbed it between his fingers in a daze. It felt expensive. He didn’t know anything about the names of different fabrics, but the smoothness beneath his fingertips, and the way the golden embroidery glinted and swum smoothly across the cloth as he tried to feel it told him enough to know that that was intricate enchantment work. He would never have consented to wear something like this, much less buy it.

It had layers, too, tight sleeves that ran down to his hand and almost over his knuckles – a robe style that Harry recalled Snape often wearing – underneath bell sleeves that were gathered and fell open at the elbow. The collar was high. The robe was mostly black, but there were deep maroon portions of fabric as well, all accented by the gold throughout.

_This was not his robe._

But it fit him perfectly, as if it had been tailored. Harry felt ill. Had Voldemort played some creepy game of dress-up with him while he was under? He must have – there was no other reason that he would be wearing something so ostentatious. The robes seemed Voldemort’s style, too. And if they were tailored – had he been measured, as well? A clamminess stole over Harry’s skin, and he shuddered and managed to lean back against the strange wood-and-metal dias behind him, so that he could pull up his knees and wrap his arms around them.

He didn’t have shoes, Harry noted dully. Just the long socks that were a usual component of wizarding outfits, deep red with black diamonds on the sides. Bloody Voldemort.

He tried to breathe, and looked up to see one of the red-headed twins crouched by him, looking at him in concern. Harry offered her a weak smile that he hoped would be reassuring, and then had to stifle a wracking cough. His throat was still raspy, and wasn’t taking well to all his hysteria.

She frowned as he coughed, and thrust a strange tablet-shaped object at him. Harry stared at it in bewilderment. Soon she seemed to realize he was clueless, and snapped up the rounded protrusion in the center of the tablet. It now looked very similar to the lid of a muggle water bottle. Harry squinted at it in bewilderment, wondering where the water was.

She said another nonsense word, but in isolation, Harry thought he could decide that it sounded a bit like _watt_ , like in electricity. The not-water bottle lid was shook gently at him. Harry took it hesitantly, and moved it towards his lips – at her excited look, he kept doing it. Part of him worried that he was just drinking his own doom, again, but he couldn’t smell anything like that lingering, herbaceous smell that he remembered so vividly from being forced to take the vial of Living Death.

Fortunately, it seemed it was just water. Harry couldn’t tell how so much water was stored in such a small area – maybe an undetectable expansion charm, he thought? Regardless. The water was fresh and cool, and he drank until he thought he would slosh over if he drank any more.

“Thanks,” he said, handing the strange water bottle back to the girl. She smiled at him and tucked it away somewhere on her belt. The water had made Harry’s mind feel clearer, but the other girls talking in the background still sounded like babble, and the red-head’s response was only “Do” – nonsense.

He still needed to escape.

Harry braced himself against the object behind him and tried to stand. His legs trembled and ached fiercely, and his knees threatened to buckle. He knew he should have been able to use his arms to support himself for a time, but they were like jelly. One foot slid out from under him – he fell back to the floor, feeling faint.

Bloody thrice-Merlin-cursed _Voldemort_.

The red-head was jabbering, and the other girls had come closer when Harry tried to stand. He ignored them for now, tired of trying to decipher the nonsense they spoke and feeling ever more dismayed and despairing when sense kept failing to materialize. Instead, he took a deep breath and gritted his teeth, willing strength back into his muscles.

The red-head held out a hand and leaned down so her shoulders were in grabbing distance.

Harry reached out and took the offered shoulder. She wrapped an arm around his back, under his other arm, and hoisted him up. He did his best to keep his feet under him as she did, but one of them gave up the ghost and the whole leg went limp, dragging across the floor. Harry clung desperately to the girl’s shoulders even as his tired body bent double, wanting nothing more than to fall back asleep –

Terror struck him at the thought. He might not wake up if he went back to sleep. Voldemort could be just around the corner, for Merlin’s sake!

This jolt of adrenaline gave Harry the boost he needed to get his legs back under him, although he still leaned heavily on the girl. He took a step, and felt triumph.

Slowly they made their way across the room to the opposite wall. Harry only noticed the hole in the ceiling once they got closer, and the ladder reaching down. He swallowed, uncertain if he would be able to navigate up on his own. He couldn’t cling to a shoulder on a ladder. It didn’t look nearly wide enough for that.

At least the girls seemed to have realized this, too, because they were conversing. Harry chose to believe that they understood one another – clearly, whatever they were saying made sense to _them_. He only wished it would make sense to _him_. He resigned himself to watching the volley of words with bewilderment, and took the time to look around the room. It was simple, really. Black and gray stone, unadorned, nothing in the place but the coffin and the coffin lid with the Dark Mark on it –

Harry stilled as his stomach lurched. He felt pale and ill again – he probably looked pale and ill to anyone watching. The metal set into the wood was cast in the form of the Dark Mark, green mixed in to form the stylized scales of the snake that curled out of and around a stark skull. It was ornate, and for a moment Harry only caught the idea of a master craftsman working diligently at creating a work of art.

But it was not a work of art. It was the Dark Mark. The snake was positioned a little differently from the tattoos Harry recalled, but that hardly mattered, in the grand scheme of things. It was still the _Dark Mark_.

Had he been in there? He glanced back at the girls, who had fallen silent and were only watching his reactions. The red-heads and the Asian girl looked fascinated – the Indian girl, on the other hand, was staring at him with narrowed eyes.

If he’d really been entombed in that coffin… It had been stamped with the Dark Mark as a way to label it. _This belongs to Lord Voldemort. Don’t touch if you value your life._

He was going to be ill if he had to stay here much longer. Harry forced himself to turn away and hobble towards the ladder, hoping that this would be enough to get the jist to the girls.

The red-head moved with him, but halted just as they got to the ladder. Harry stared upwards, seeing nothing but more black stone, and wondered where they actually were. One of the girls said something – Harry felt a tingle of magic run over his skin, and he and the red-head began to rise slowly up through the air. He gasped, and clung to her reflexively, but he didn’t slip at all. It was almost like Mary Poppins. He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t find the breath to do so.

The room up the ladder was made of the same stone as below, and filled with niches in the wall that held more coffins lined with metal. Harry blanched at the sight, but felt a little better when he saw the caved-in wall across the room. Outside was grass and trees, ferns and scattered black rocks from the destroyed wall. Harry didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but he’d been in a dungeon for – well, he didn’t really know. He wanted to feel the sun.

As soon as they stepped onto the upper floor, Harry started to stumble towards the exit. The red-head went with him, but slower than he wanted – she was holding back and turning to call down to the other girls still below. Reluctantly, he slowed. His body wouldn’t stand for trying to push right now – he could feel his knees threatening to buckle. He leaned heavily on the girl and tried to breathe.

His eyes drifted down to the wall nearby, and caught a glimpse of text on a little metal plaque.

_Hermione Granger,_ it said.

Harry stared.

“Hermione?” he croaked.

_Hermione Granger,_ said the plaque again, its serifed metal letters cast by a shadow. It was a plaque, on a wall, next to a coffin.

“No,” he mumbled. “No, no, _no_ – ”

“What iss wrong?” said the girl holding him up.

Harry couldn’t muster any glee at finally understanding a sentence through the thick accent – could barely even see, through what he belatedly realized were tears. “Hermione,” he wailed, wrenching himself away from the red-head and stumbling forwards. His hands struck the wall and he sank to his knees, shoulders trembling. “No,” he sobbed. “ _No._ ”

Somebody grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. He swatted at the hand, unwilling to move, but his ability to do anything properly was still impaired. The Indian girl dragged him up and away from Hermione’s _coffin_ , and he couldn’t make her stop no matter how much he thrashed about.

“Stop it!” he yelled, ignoring the scratching in his throat. “Stop it! Let me go!”

She didn’t let him go, but the world cracked around him.

It wasn’t a noise. ‘Noise’ was the best word that Harry could think of for what this was, but it was still not a noise. It was far deeper than a mere noise, a throbbing sensation that drilled all the way to the marrow of his bones, accompanied by a thousand thundercracks, and the screech of chalk on a chalkboard, amplified until together they threatened to split his skull in half. The very air screamed.

Harry gasped, and stopped fighting the hands, which had also stopped dragging him. He clutched the Indian girl’s shoulder and stared dumbly, unable to locate the source of – that. Around him the girls were staring with nerves and dulled panic at the caved-in entryway to the ruin. Harry followed their gazes, and saw a shadow being cast over everything that had once been sunlit.

The Asian girl burst forwards, sprinting for the broken wall. She reached the entrance, looked up at the sky, and turned white.

“Fuck!” she screamed. And – nonsense. But whatever that nonsense was, the other girls yelled in turn, or made noises of despair and disbelief. Harry could recognize those well enough at least.

The Indian girl practically dropped him in her haste to move forwards. “Go go go _go_ ,” she sounded like she was yelling. Everyone was yelling – Harry could only tighten his hands on his current crutch’s shoulders, hope that his muscles would listen, and try his best to move his legs. It wasn’t really effective, and his feet wanted to drag.

One of the red-heads yelled and grabbed him from the Indian girl. They were tripping out of the caved-in wall now, one red-head on either side of him, and suddenly his feet were only barely skimming the ground. He flailed, but managed to stay upright, and found himself moving much faster now that he wasn’t tripping on his own feet.

There were four devices sitting in the field. Harry wanted to say they were motorbikes, which was odd to think when the girls were obviously using magic, but they certainly looked something like motorbikes. Yet they were also nothing like any motorbike Harry had ever seen – sleek and strangely angled, with runes carved across the body and no sign of any exhaust pipes. The wheels, such as they were, were so small that there was no way the body wouldn’t drag on the ground.

They were in the shadow now. Harry looked up, wondering what was casting it, and saw that the sky had become completely black.

What was going _on_?

He gaped at the sight in horror, even as the red-heads shoved him into a backseat on one of the not-motorbikes. One of them hopped on in front of him and slapped the side of the seat – a belt sprang from apparent nothingness and wrapped itself around his waist, holding him to the seat. Harry took a moment to feel grateful for this, because otherwise he’d surely have fallen off the moment the vehicle moved. Then he didn’t have time to feel grateful anymore, because they were accelerating. Harry glanced down and saw that the wheels weren’t even touching the ground – merely glowing, forcing the bikes to hover.

He only barely wrapped an arm around the girl’s waist. He had probably moved too much, too soon – his muscles were all protesting. But whatever that thing in the sky was, it seemed to be bad news, and he would much rather flee until he could figure out what was going on then stick around and see what sort of trouble the black sky might herald.

A flash of white to the side caught his eye, and Harry turned to look.

A black-covered individual in a bone-white skull mask was charging out of the treeline.

A Death Eater.

Harry stared at the approaching Death Eater for far longer than he should have. The skull mask was plain and white, none of the intricate detailing that Harry was used to seeing on the Inner Circle’s masks, and the oddly cut battle-robe flashed with strange sparks of silver as it moved around the Death Eater’s legs. Bright orange runes wound their way up the Death Eater’s shins, and even though Harry hadn’t taken Ancient Runes, he had watched Hermione doing homework enough to know that those runes weren’t on the curriculum.

(Hermione, a voice wailed in the back of his mind. What happened to her?)

His back felt briefly hot, and then cold, as if somebody had dumped ice water between his shoulder blades. A prickling sensation arose – not exactly itchy, but not pleasant, either. He stared around and saw more Death Eaters approaching from the other side, masks and robes identical. A uniform? He hadn’t thought they had those. Spells were flying, but Harry hadn’t even noticed any wands being drawn. Why was he so distracted?

No, he thought. He needed to concentrate. He needed to –

He was so tired.

Maybe he was in shock, Harry thought dully, as he watched a bright yellow-orange spell splatter uselessly against the side of the motorbike that he was seated on. At least it seemed that these girls had a good grasp of shield spells, or maybe of countercurses. Either way, it was all clear to him, despite his inability to process everything that was happening around him. The lights were flashing and there was yelling, and he couldn’t understand any of the words, could barely focus. But these girls had woken him up. They were trying to get him away from the Death Eaters. Death Eaters would of course be working for Voldemort, who wanted to put Harry back in the coffin. Back to sleep.

_That_ wasn’t a spell, Harry thought. That was a glowing black net stretched across the air. There was a bluish-green wind across the hills to the right and a thin tower to the left, beyond the trees, that reached all the way up into the sky and just didn’t stop going up. It was curved, but it wasn’t falling down.

The bike turned hard, until Harry was almost parallel to the ground. Something snapped, a sound like a telephone wire coming down. A Death Eater was suddenly in their path – before the girl could swerve, they had dived to the side in a streak of black and started to skid down the hill.

He definitely wanted to stay with these girls for now, Harry thought, as they finally left the black shadow and plunged into a forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Harry. That's a lot to deal with all at once. In the next chapter(s) we'll get more of a chance to see him reacting, rather than just getting dragged around by the chaos. 
> 
> I've upped the chapter count because my outline told me that there was no way I'm going to get through all of this in only 15 chapters.
> 
> And an author note! I got very distracted by getting a second job. Now I work two or three 12-hour days each week, and I'm usually too tired then to do much but play the ps4 when I get home, so my writing production has slowed down. I've switched my priorities around for my in-progress stories based on which ones are getting written faster. That means Mi Aedijekit and Outliers – Mi Ae just happened to see its chapter two finished first. Outliers' chapter 2 is half-written and giving me lip.


	3. Fóst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _fóst_ (n) forest, woods; the wilderness, such as is found when humans do not inhabit the surrounding environs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very relieved that after the absolute pain of the prior chapter, this one practically wrote itself, and I am _hype_ to continue to take you further into this weird, trippy tale.

* * *

  


They rode through the forest. Harry did not know where they were going. It only mattered that they were moving farther and farther away from the place where the Death Eaters had been, and that terrible black shadow. Trees and plants whipped by in a blur of green, too quickly for him to count or examine in any way, and his eyes were still having difficulty focusing on anything. He wondered if he had lost his glasses in the chase. That, he thought, would be absolutely terrible.

The vehicle was going so quickly. Harry’s arms had frozen in place around the girl’s waist, muscles locked up. He knew if he unlocked them they would collapse with exhaustion, so he didn’t let them do so, despite the weariness in his body. Even at the speeds they were travelling, somehow the red-head was able to drive and still avoid the trees. Whatever skill she was using, it was working, for they hadn’t crashed yet. She’d make a good Quidditch seeker. Maybe the girls and Harry could get a team going once they escaped from Voldemort for good.

As he had this thought, there was a wrenching metallic noise. The girl yelped, her ribcage contracting under his arms, and then she and Harry were in the air but the seat was not underneath them. Harry didn’t have time to react quickly enough through his daze of shock, and his muscles couldn’t bear to move anyway. The girl slipped from his grasp – the forest spun, turned into a dizzying whirl of browns and greens and grays. At least the sky was still sunlit and normal, Harry thought distantly.

He hit the ground and bounced like a ball. Curiously, this didn’t hurt, not even when he bounced a few more times. Only when he slowed enough to roll head over heels down a short slope, rocks and loose branches digging into him and skinning his knuckles and cheek, did he receive any injuries.

Harry lay face-down on the ground and tried to breath. His cheek stung, and his ribs felt bruised. Nothing felt broken, though. He tried to lift himself up by leveraging his elbows against the ground, but only managed to get high enough to change which cheek was lying on the ground before he fell back down.

“Oh heck,” someone yelled. Harry’s eyes flickered wearily up the slope and saw the Asian girl shuffling quickly down towards him. “He,” she said, followed by – more gibberish. Harry sighed, and tried to raise a hand, just to let her know he was alive. It had probably been too much to hope for constant understanding, anyway. He was clearly still under the effects of the Draught, if he felt this tired.

She reached his side and smiled weakly down at him. Gibberish, nonsense – Harry wanted to close his eyes in exasperation, and because he was tired, but he resisted. Couldn’t sleep. Sleeping was dangerous.

“Who are you?” he mumbled instead.

The girl, now kneeling besides him, made no sign that she’d heard him. Instead she reached down and hoisted him up by the waist, dragging one of his arms around her shoulders. Harry tried to move his legs, but found he couldn’t. They dangled uselessly, completely done with movement. All he could do was lean weakly on the girl, until the redhead hurried down the slope and took position on his other side. Together they picked him up under each knee and carried him up the hill. Harry was too tired to be able to bring himself to feel ashamed by this.

They set him down against the trunk of a tree. Harry glanced around, and saw a wrecked bike, accompanied by three un-wrecked bikes. The red-head – wait. Yes, twins, of course, he thought. The red-head who had been with him on the bike was having her arm bundled up by the Indian girl. The other red-head was the one who had carried him up the hill. Harry wondered if they were like Fred and George, and hoped that he’d be able to tell them apart soon.

At least he hadn’t lost his glasses. He could see quite clearly.

Once the red-head’s arm was wrapped, a discussion commenced. It was jagged, marked by the occasional word shrieked for emphasis, full of wild gesturing and narrowed eyes and poking people in the chest. Harry got the sense that everyone was mad at everyone else, except the two red-heads, who didn’t seem to be mad at each other, at least. Well, if they were anything like Fred and George, that made sense.

He didn’t mind not being part of the discussion. Although maybe he was a part of it – sometimes the girls would gesture towards him. Maybe he was the topic. Harry couldn’t bother to be angry about this. He was so exhausted.

His eyelids were fluttering.

A bolt of panic shot down his spine, and for a second he sat fully upright. It didn’t last – he found himself falling back against the treetrunk. But he couldn’t sleep, he thought, frantic but distant. He couldn’t sleep. Sleeping was dangerous – sleeping was terrible.

“ _Hush, Harry,_ ” hissed Voldemort’s voice. The man was just behind him. When had he gotten here? Harry fought to move, but he couldn’t. His arms just wouldn’t do anything. The muscles in his core twitched uselessly. Voldemort carded fingers carefully through Harry’s hair, voice a croon, a hiss. “ _I shall take such good care of you…_”

“ _no,_ ” he hissed weakly. “ _not again, no…_ ”

He fell asleep – again.

* * *

Such good care.

Harry shot upright and screamed. Rather, he screamed, and tried to shoot upright, but fell back onto his elbows as a wave of dizziness struck him. Where was he, he thought desperately, where had Voldemort taken him now, what new curse was upon him this time, where was he imprisoned, the coffin, somewhere else, where –

The girls all stared at him from their seats around a small lumen fire.

Harry stared back and struggled to breathe. Slowly he forced himself to stare at each face. The red-head. The other red-head. He thought their freckles might be set in slightly different patterns, but he wasn’t sure yet. The Asian girl, her short, bobbed hair no longer quite so neatly arrayed. The Indian girl, her bun undone so that her hair fell about her shoulders.

He recognized them all, but where was Voldemort? He’d heard Voldemort. He was sure of it. But looking around, there was no Tom Riddle sitting in some darkened corner, no lurking, gleaming red eyes.

Harry exhaled, and tried to sit back up. He was on some sort of thin camping mattress – it was dark out. The bikes from before were nowhere to be seen. Fortunately his muscles seemed to be back up to working, and he managed to get himself into a sitting position.

The girls were roasting some kind of meat on handheld spits. A stray breeze brought the scent of it to Harry’s nostrils, and his mouth filled with saliva, and his stomach roared.

How long had it been since he’d eaten anything, he wondered dully, as he stared at the food. This felt just like the worst cupboard punishments at the Dursleys, the ends of them, when he could do nothing but stare and drool at even piles of crumbs. His stomach growled aloud – Harry wobbled, struggling to scoot closer to the fire.

The closest red-head thrust her spit at him. Harry grabbed it and shoved it into his mouth, uncaring of what the meat actually was. It was gamey, but seasoned, and still juicy despite that. He tore into it, juice dribbling down his chin, and his stomach shrieked in delight. It wanted more immediately, even after he’d inhaled the first few bites, but Harry knew how this worked. He clenched his teeth and sucked in a deep breath through his nose, willing himself to have control. He knew what would happen if he ate too quickly on such a shrunken stomach. He’d experienced it quite a few times at Hogwarts before fully internalizing what was going on, after all.

He ate the whole spit of meat, and then some bread when it was offered. He turned down the cheese – not out of preference, but out of experience. Cheese and dairy had never been a good idea at the Hogwarts welcoming feasts. At least shaking your head was still a shorthand for ‘no’.

Still. His heart skipped a beat as he caught himself thinking that. Obviously time had moved on while he had been drugged – he didn’t see how it could have gone backwards. But he didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to try and understand how long it had been. It was probably just – maybe it was the 2nd millennium AD now. Or would that be the 3rd millennium AD? Harry had never really understood dates that much.

It couldn’t be more than 2010. Right?

He felt more alive when he had eaten. This turned out to be a good thing, because the red-head closer to him turned to face him, pulling something out of her bun as she did so. It was a little crescent of metal, covered with thin grooves. Harry stared in undisguised confusion as she ran her fingers over it and pieces of glowing parchment curled out of it, fleeing the crescent to hover in midair, encircling the girl’s face, rearranging themselves as more were added. Finally she picked three and shoved the rest to the side, where they scattered into wisps of smoke.

“Hello,” she said, smiling at him.

“… Hi,” Harry tried. That didn’t result in a proper answer, so he tried again. “Hello.”

“Hello!” she said excitedly. “Oh oh oh…” She flicked through the thickest parchment – it was more of a sheaf than a sheet – and mumbled to herself. “Hello,” she said again, staring at the parchment. “Uh… I… am… Samenta.”

The words were slow and labored, and Harry suddenly wasn’t sure if she even understood what she was saying. The accent was still there. She wasn’t saying the word ‘I’ properly.

Still, he replied in kind. “I’m Harry.”

“I’m?” she mimicked him in confusion. Then: “Oh! Am?”

“Yeah, am,” Harry said in the interests of agreement.

“Harry,” she said. She didn’t pronounce it quite right, but on the other hand, it didn’t sound like she was pronouncing it wrong? Harry couldn’t work it out at that moment.

“Yeah,” he said instead.

“Hello Harry,” she said, beaming at him. Harry ventured a weak smile in return.

“Where are we?” he tried to ask.

“Where?” she repeated dully. “What?”

“What?” Harry said, just as dully.

The other red-head suddenly scoffed and yanked the sheaf of parchment away from her twin. But instead of being pulled away, it shimmered, and suddenly there were two sheafs. She flicked her fingers at the other two – the sheaf copied itself twice more and floated over to them as well.

“I am Samenta,” the red-head repeated firmly. Harry nodded, and got a smile for his efforts. “You… are… Harry,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Cut,” the girl said. Harry blinked, but before he could voice his confusion, she’d moved on. “Dis is Daumi,” she said, indicating her twin.

“Daumi,” Harry repeated dutifully.

“Dis is Issa,” pointing to the Asian girl, who grinned and waved.

“Issa.”

“Dis is Mahi.” The final point was towards the Indian girl, who only nodded slowly, watching Harry carefully.

“Mahi,” Harry repeated, not sure if he’d gotten it right. The names were odd, almost English, but not quite. He tried to smile at Mahi either way – he didn’t like the way she was looking at him. It reminded him of Snape.

Samenta stared at the sheaf and then turned to the others and babbled again. Harry wondered why his ability to comprehend them changed so drastically, so quickly. One minute he could understand them, the next he couldn’t? As long as they were looking at those strange sheafs of parchment, he was fine, but how could he know what other things might cause the change?

“Harry,” Mahi said to him. Harry forced himself to focus on her. “Do you speak it Ilkis?” she said.

“Do I speak… Ilkis?” Harry said slowly. Nods came, after a bit of conferencing and some glances at the sheaf of parchment, and.

Harry was starting to get a terrible feeling.

“No,” he said instead. The reaction of dismay was immediate, and a cold stone dropped into the pit of his stomach.

“Do you speak English?” he tried desperately.

“What?”

* * *

They didn’t speak English. But they sort of did speak English, and Harry couldn’t for the life of him understand how or where the line was drawn. ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ were the same, thank Merlin, and it seemed that so was ‘Hello’. But there, the similarities dropped off abruptly, and Harry sat back and stared helplessly as they tried to teach him the names of things around them. _Feah_ , pointing to the fire. _Shih_ , pointing to the trees. And then there were the ones that were the right word to be English but the wrong item pointed to: _rope_ at his clothing, _tunic_ at the clothes they were wearing – though maybe that made sense after all, Harry thought, even if they looked more like jackets than tunics.

Fortunately _what_ was still the same. It quickly became a shorthand for both parties to mean (at least as far as Harry could tell), “I have no idea what you just said”.

He found himself saying ‘What?’ more often than not. It was intensely frustrating when he knew how to speak English perfectly fine. The lack of understanding made him feel like an imbecile. He should at least be able to understand other people when they talked. It was the bare minimum of being a person, after all. But as he watched them chatter and dampen the fire, Harry could only feel blank confusion as he tried again to listen to what they were saying.

“Slip, Harry?” said one of the red-heads.

Slip? Slip what? Was she asking if he had slipped? “What?” Harry said hopelessly.

She frowned, and then clenched both of her fists on the side of her head, closed her eyes, and made a sighing noise. “Slip,” she said again.

Sleep? Why…

“No,” he said.

He did not want to go to sleep.

* * *

The night was very long when you didn’t sleep. Harry curled up in the crooks of a tree root, and watched whichever girl had decided to be awake for that moment as best he could through the moonlight. First it was the Asian girl, who sat across from him, and spent most of her time staring up at what small bits of sky could be seen through the trees above them. She didn’t try to speak to him, for which Harry was grateful.

At some point, she woke up one of the red-heads, and went to sleep. The red-head sat right next to Harry, and while she also watched the sky, she kept glancing at him almost expectantly. Whenever he accidentally made eye contact, she would smile. This only made him curl up a bit tighter, wishing fiercely for Hermione to be here. Hermione, he thought, would know what to do. Hermione would know how to learn a new language that both was English and wasn’t at all.

Morning came, and somehow everyone woke up in sync. The red-head got up from next to him and pulled a small bag out from one of her hip pouches. Little creamy brown-colored pills were passed around to everyone, and then she offered one to him. Harry stared at it, uncertain.

“Er,” he said. “What?”

“ _Keff,_ ” she said.

Harry didn’t know what _keff_ was, but in the interests of getting along with his rescuers, he took it. For a few moments, nothing happened, and then a bolt of energy and awareness shot through his spine. It made it easy to force his legs to uncurl, and miraculously, he could stand on his own.

He didn’t have shoes, but – whatever. He’d had worse.

They walked for most of the day. Harry kept expecting to see the beginning of a town or a city – even a lone farm or cottage. Sometimes in the distance, outside of the tree cover, he thought he saw such buildings. But they were always caved in, vine-covered, possibly rotted, and the one time he’d tried to step out of the tree cover the girls had panicked as one and tugged him back in.

 _Donko_ , he learned, was probably ‘Don’t go’.

He alternated between being so frustrated by his inability to understand anything that he refused to listen to them speak, and being so upset that he couldn’t understand them that he hung on to every nonsensical word they spoke, trying to force meaning into them. _Dat_ was ‘that’ and _diss_ was ‘this’, which was easy enough – and once he figured that out, he figured out _duh_ for ‘the’ and _ting_ for ‘thing’. It was strange, he thought, how slowly things were coalescing into sensicality the more he listened. His ears stretched, as if they had muscles, in their strain to hear English through the incredibly thick accent, but once he made one step, he slowly started to make more, and faster.

In the distance, sometimes he could see that impossibly tall tower. Still it curved as if it were going to fall, but it never moved, and it glinted occasionally. Harry was strongly reminded of the Burrow’s rather unstable-looking architecture, and wondered if the tower was held up by magic. Probably, he thought. But why was it there? What did it do?

He had since gotten down how to say “What’s that?”, which he thought was really one of the best phrases ever invented.

“What’s that?” he said, pointing to the tower through a hole in the trees. It felt stupid, saying ‘ _What dat_ ’, but they looked confused when he tried to say _that_ more properly.

The Indian girl – Mahi, he remembered – had ended up closest to him, and blinked before looking where he was pointing.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s the _leveet_.”

“What’s _leveet_?” Harry asked, trying out the new word on his tongue.

She fumbled around with words Harry couldn’t catch for a bit, before yelling at the others. One of the red-heads bounded back, and Harry listened intently as Mahi explained (or he assumed she was explaining) his question.

“Ah,” she said, which was the sound she made when she was confused and unsure what to say. “Ah… it go up.”

She looked proud of herself when she finished, but Harry was still bewildered. Did she mean to say that it was tall? He thought that was pretty obvious just from looking at it, given the way it disappeared into the clouds. It went up…

“How tall is it?” he asked, and to his surprise they seemed to understand him. The red-head started rambling while Mahi stroked a metal cuff around her wrist – Harry noticed that it looked very much like the strange crescent that Samenta had pulled out of her hair the other night. A piece of parchment shot out and she caught it, then huffed and handed it to him.

Harry took it haltingly, remembering how the strange parchments had vanished into smoke the other night. Fortunately, it held, though it didn’t feel exactly like parchment ought to feel. It felt strangely glossy, almost slick, but it wasn’t wet, and it had the texture of parchment despite the glossiness. There was a single sentence printed on it, with letters and numbers that mostly looked familiar. Mahi pressed a finger to the number.

 _daLetetik spís levítt 144000 kn tál is_ , it read.

Harry stared at it. Why was the ‘is’ at the end? Was kn like km, _tál_ like ‘tall’? _144,000 kilometers?_ That seemed like a lot, though Harry didn’t actually have a good sense of how long a kilometer truly was, either.

He looked again at the tower, and stared.

“You’ll do a come?” called out the second red-head, standing at the top of the next rise in the forest floor. Rather, that was the best approximation of what Harry thought he was hearing, but he figured maybe she was asking them if they were coming. He felt quite pleased with himself for realizing that, so he said ‘yes’ before either of the other girls could, and took a step forwards.

The air screamed again, and the sky went black. Harry clutched his ears and shuddered at the sound of scraping fingernails, and beside him, the two girls looked like they were about to die in terror. The Asian girl – Issa, he thought dully – suddenly reappeared over the ridge, legs pumping so quickly that Harry worried she would trip over herself. Behind her, a glowing net of red lines crawled over the forest floor like a horde of snakes, buzzing ominously and trickling through the leaflitter. It almost seemed to be nipping at Issa’s feet, and a few had clung to her boots.

Harry stared.

“Run,” Mahi managed, fleeing deeper into the forest. The net of red crawled under and over a fallen log, and Harry fled, stumbling. The robes made it hard to move – they were heavy, and they swung around his legs firmly. A few stones gashed the soles of his feet through the socks, but he forced himself to move on and ignore it.

Another scream caught his attention. Harry turned and saw Issa lying front-first on the ground, the red lines now wrapped around most of her legs. She was being slowly dragged backwards, despite her hands clawing at the ground in an attempt to prevent it.

Without consciously deciding to do so, Harry was moving back towards her. He didn’t know what sort of danger this was, or what the black sky was, and a small and logical side of him informed him that he had no idea if anything he did would even help. (The voice sounded like Hermione.) Still, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he left somebody behind like that, which was what the other girls seemed to be doing.

Issa waved a hand at him, as if telling him to go back. He ignored her and grabbed it instead, and at that moment, the red lines broke apart and vanished. A few red sparks flew up from the ground and skittered over his clothes, or fell into the leaflitter and guttered out. Within seconds they were gone.

Harry tried to look around, bewildered, but Issa grabbed him and they ran back to the others instead. Mahi and the twins had found an empty hollow underneath the roots of a particularly tall tree, and they hustled him and Issa inside. A green light flashed in Harry’s eyes as he hit the ground, but when he looked again it was gone.

Everyone grabbed each other’s arms and held very still, and did not speak. Harry followed their lead, feeling rather more upset again than he just had. Screw sort of understanding a question about whether or not he was coming along. He wanted to understand what the bloody hell was going on!

The black shadow remained overhead for almost an hour, before it began to drift slowly to the side. Harry took a chance and peered out at it as best he could, and saw to his surprise that it seemed to have ends. So – there was really something floating in the sky, casting that shadow, he thought. It was still mostly black, and seemed to suck up the light, but he caught a hint of red glow, outlining something that he couldn’t quite put together with his mind. The girls dragged him back into their hiding place before he could look further, though he desperately wanted to.

Another hour or so after it had drifted far enough away to stop casting a shadow on them, the girls slowly emerged. Nobody spoke for the rest of the day, and nobody moved very far from one another, either.

* * *

Harry tried to stay awake that night. He tried to focus on how much his feet ached, and on the words the girls spoke to one another in hushed voices. But he imagined he felt a warm hand carding through his hair, and he fell asleep in somebody else’s arms.

The next morning he did not scream when he woke up, but he eagerly took one of the keff tablets that got handed out. The afterimage of Voldemort burned on the inside of his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes, and if he had had his wand, he would have hexed every stray sound in a panic the whole morning. When Issa came to stand beside him and put a hand on his arm, he jumped out of his skin.

She smiled weakly at him and glanced at one of the sheets of parchment. “Tank you,” she said slowly. _Thank you_ , Harry thought.

He was bewildered for a moment before he realized that he had no idea what the red net of lines had been. He might have saved her life, for all he knew.

“You’re welcome,” he said slowly. “It was nothing. Er. No-ting,” he corrected, hoping that she would get that.

She frowned at the paper. “You’re welcome?” she repeated slowly.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“In Ilkis, _yawelkah_ ,” she said, smiling at him.

He imitated her as best he could, and she grinned at him, and gave him a hug. “In Ilkis, no-ting it wass,” she told him. Harry frowned at the out-of-order words.

“Why?” he said. She corrected him again, and he forced himself to use the new pronunciation. But then she merely shrugged.

“Cuss,” she said.

Harry figured she meant ‘because’, not ‘cuss’, but that still didn’t tell him anything. “No,” he said to her, and she only laughed at him.

They walked together for the rest of the morning, and Harry tried to talk with her. Slowly, gradually, he felt his ears stop stretching quite so much as he finally managed to apprehend most of the words they were using. They were still often nonsensical and out of order, but he caught much more conversation than he had yesterday. They were making their way to some city, in a roundabout way through the forest, because it was safer. Harry still didn’t get why they hadn’t encountered any towns on the way, but he figured maybe they were in a nature reserve. Maybe they were breaking and entering. Maybe the black shape was some sort of – automated guardian for the nature reserve? It would make as much sense as anything that had happened to him lately.

But then again, the Death Eaters. He couldn’t see Voldemort being much for nature reserves. A strange mental image of the Dark Lord wearing a ‘Save the Pandas’ shirt sprung to Harry’s mind, and he had to clap a hand to his mouth before he burst into cackles.

Issa gave him an odd look. He waved her away, still giggling.

* * *

The next morning Harry awoke from an upsetting, uncomfortable sleep full of coffins to see the black shape floating in the sky above them.

He froze instinctively, and slowly looked over at the girls. One of the red-heads was awake – Daumi, he thought, after peering a bit closer and seeing the purplish lights on her belt. Samenta’s were lime-green, unless they were intentionally messing with him by switching it up. It was something the Weasley twins would have done, and they reminded him of Fred and George sometimes.

Daumi noticed him look over, and slowly pressed a hand to her mouth.

Harry nodded and stayed silent. They waited in silence, the others slowly waking up and also freezing, until the black shape drifted away again.

“Harry?” Samenta whispered at him once they were moving around, if trying not to make much noise. “Why…”

“Why what?” Harry whispered back.

She gestured vaguely in the direction where the black shape had disappeared. “Why” – nonsense – “still?” she said.

“… Still?”

She frowned and shook her head. “Nevermind,” she said. Instead, she moved to point towards something in the distance. “Look, it’s Lahdah,” she said.

Harry came over to her and squinted in the direction she was pointing. Through the trees he could see the occasional flicker of movement, and a rather tall slope of green covered in brush, but nothing that he expected from a city that he was fairly certain was London.

“Lahdah’s a city,” he said.

“Yeah,” Samenta said.

“Where’s the city?”

They all looked at him oddly until Issa groaned and waved her hands at the pair of them. “Go away, Sami,” she said, and then something Harry couldn’t catch. But she came over to take a place on his other side, pulling parchment out of her own crescent-printer, which Harry had learned were called ‘oralks’.

“Look,” she said, holding up an image for him. “That’s London, right?” she asked slowly, almost tripping on the pronunciation of _London_.

Harry took the parchment. It did look like London. The map was ink-drawn and sepia-toned, and included a number of districts and street arrangements that looked unfamiliar to his eyes, but it was basically right. “Yeah, sure,” he told her.

“London is Lahdah,” she told him.

“I got that.”

Another piece of parchment popped up. She didn’t hand it to him, though, and instead folded it like a piece of origami and tossed it into the air, where it shifted from a mere sheet of parchment into some kind of moving illusion. “This is Lahdah,” she said.

Harry wasn’t quite certain what he was looking at. It was the twisted hybrid of a forest, a garden, and a city. He thought he could see stone buildings, but they seemed to merge into tree-trunks or vast expanses of green, and everything was covered in plant life. There were waterfalls coming from the tops of buildings – skyscrapers – and falling all the way to the ground, or being collected in pools that streamed slowly downwards, circling around the city. It was sprawling, but tall, and through the many, many holes in the outside buildings – walls? He wasn’t certain – he could see inside walkways with more waterways, more plants.

Issa began to flick her fingers at it as he stared, and the tips of the tallest skyscrapers vanished. Then the next set, and the next, until Harry was watching as the skylines of what should have been fifteen cities between them revealed themselves, dropping down until he was staring at the London skyline that he thought he’d once known. Big Ben was even there, for a moment, but with another flick he was gone, and there was one more layer of what appeared to be old townhouses before underground tunnels and caverns appeared, as the map descended into the ground.

… What was he supposed to say?

Harry wanted to feel awe. He did feel awe. It was beautiful, much more beautiful than any image of London that Harry had ever seen before. But it was terrible because he couldn’t even imagine how long it might have taken for London to have been built upon until it was that tall, until there were fifteen other cities on top of it. He wanted to cry as he watched the visual demonstration of the time depth build itself up again, so many things that had happened all while he was asleep. He wanted to beg them to tell him what year it was.

He wanted to feel those things. But a little square of ink set on the corner of the map, away from the projected illusion, made him stop. He almost hadn’t noticed it. But he had noticed it now, and the sight of it took all the feelings he should have had and winnowed them away until he merely felt cold.

Within the square of ink, the Dark Mark pulsed between black and a deep emerald green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Some images](https://www.notechmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/solarpunk22.jpg) [I used](https://img2.goodfon.com/wallpaper/big/5/44/art-imperial-boy-teikaku.jpg) [for inspiration](https://images.e-flux-systems.com/1496954377901.png,2000) [for London](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/43/3c/94/433c94d32c2d8b0abed54aee80981ace.jpg) – [sorry](https://jessicaseymourcom.files.wordpress.com/2017/12/0_0enx2a3p0ptxvc97.jpg?w=660), [I mean](https://mir-s3-cdn-cf.behance.net/project_modules/hd/ccb5029092975.560c858415699.jpg) [Ládá.](https://www.wallpapermaiden.com/wallpaper/4756/download/3840x2160/anime-cityscape-anime-girls-landscape.jpg) (I do make art, but I did not draw these.)


	4. Siati

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _siati_ (n) a human establishment or place of residence; an artificially engaged portion of the landscape intended for habitation by numerous humans simultaneously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current Status: Grinning like a maniac over how much writing I've been able to get done.
> 
> I'm trying to really finalize the chapter count in my outline, but I keep getting distracted by writing actual chapters. As diversions go it's not a _bad_ one, but I'm definitely going to have to up the chapter count again, but I don't want to do that until I know with a better sense how many chapters I'm going to be writing. Will it be 50? It might be 50. It depends on how long it takes me to get to the important bits.

  


* * *

  


“Fuck!” Mahi cried as the forest began to wind down around them. She had taken point, as far as Harry understood it, so he didn’t know what she had seen. Whatever it was, it was causing her some grief, as a cascade of the same word in different inflections found its way from her mouth.

Harry moved up and tried to peer around her. All he saw was a mound of earth through the trees, struck through with needle-thin stone columns that swayed slightly and hummed in the breeze. Harry hadn’t watched many movies in his life, but he had overhead enough of Dudley’s late-night viewing sessions to recognize the strange, eerie noises that often accompanied muggle horror movies as a soundtrack. Beyond the needles, stone rose precipitously from the ground, covered in moss and lichen, vines, and nearly sideways tree-trucks.

He had not asked any of the girls about the Dark Mark on the map. He didn’t want to think about it for now, and it seemed that they hadn’t noticed the blood draining from his face as he looked at the projected illusion. Well, maybe they had. But maybe they’d attributed it to shock at how much the city had changed between maps.

At the moment, though, he didn’t see anything to be swearing about. He looked at her quizzically, only to find that she was glaring at him.

“This is all your fault,” she growled. Harry stilled, first because he’d understood her, and then because she was blaming him.

“What?” he said. He sounded plaintive, and didn’t like that, but he couldn’t feel anything but confusion. “What’s all my fault?”

“The lockdown!” she snapped, gesturing wildly at the humming needles. Or maybe at the city in general. Harry wasn’t sure how he was supposed to tell. He thought he remembered lockdown drills from muggle primary school, but he didn’t see how that followed to a city.

In the meantime, the other three had come up to stand with them on the ridge. Daumi planted a boot on a tree root and pressed a hand to her forehead, sighing dramatically.

“So it was _shisah_ after all,” Issa said, frowning at the needles. Harry frowned in turn, but at the word she’d used. Though his comprehension was absolutely better than it had been, he still missed words here and there.

“Shisah?” he echoed slowly.

“Shisah,” Issa repeated. Then she grinned widely, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Guess – ” nonsense “ – die.”

Die?! Harry stepped back and looked around, alarmed, but didn’t see anything. He turned back to the girls to see them all looking at him oddly.

“That’s just an expression,” Mahi said. Her pronunciation of expression jogged a thought in Harry’s memory, and _shisah_ abruptly rearranged itself into something meaningful.

Treason.

“What’s treason?” he cried.

“Waking you up,” Mahi growled.

She turned a baleful eye on the twins, who looked extremely unrepentant. Samenta crossed her arms over her chest and glared right back. “You’re stuck with it too,” she said. Issa glanced at Harry and rolled her eyes, as if looking for some camaraderie, but Harry could only focus on the bubbling feeling in his stomach.

“Why is waking me up treason?” he asked weakly. But Mahi and Samenta had descended into an argument about whose fault what was, and how they should have just left him in the coffin, insofar as Mahi was concerned. An icicle pierced Harry’s heart at the thought, and he stumbled away from them, farther into the forest until they were a bit muffled by the moss and trees. He couldn’t see properly, even with his glasses on – his eyes were blurring. Clutching his face, he leaned against a tree and doubled over, trying to breathe evenly.

“Hey,” said a voice. Issa. “Are you okay?”

Harry tried to answer, but a broken gasp was all that escaped his throat. A hand came to his shoulder and rested there comfortingly, until he managed to get a clear lungful of air again.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “I’m – fine?” He hadn’t heard their word for fine yet, but if the patterns of sound in their dialect held…

“Sure,” Issa said. She didn’t sound convinced, but she took away her hand regardless. “Ignore Mahi. She’s just a bitch.”

Harry laughed uneasily, and struggled to straighten up. Somehow it worked. He threw his head back against the tree and sighed, exhausted.

“Why did you wake me up?” he asked.

“Ask Sami and Daumi,” Issa said shortly, and then a short phrase Harry didn’t catch all of, but which sounded like ‘they something’. “They did it.”

“Maybe later,” Harry said, glancing back at the trio. They weren’t arguing anymore. Instead, Samenta and Daumi were standing by a tree looking sullen, and Mahi was behind another – crying? She was crying.

Harry immediately felt wretched.

Issa followed his gaze and glanced back at him. “I – ” something “ – go talk to her.” Probably I’m going to go, Harry thought, trying to mentally make a note of it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. I’ll ask them.”

“You mean ‘I _ackah-askah_ , Harry,” Issa said, but she walked away.

Harry watched for a few moments as she approached Mahi slowly, muttering ‘ _ackah-askah_ ’ to himself under his breath. Then he shook himself and wandered over to the twins.

“Issa says you woke me up,” he said, without preamble.

They looked up from their huddle. For a moment Harry worried they were going to glare at him, but Samenta grinned and Daumi nodded. “Yeah,” they chorused.

“Why?”

They glanced at each other and didn’t speak. Harry watched from a place somewhere between heartache and bewilderment as they communicated with minute facial gestures, the way Fred and George always had.

Finally Daumi straightened up a bit. “How to explain…” she muttered. Harry waited expectantly, and she sighed after Samenta nudged her in the ribs. “We have a book in our family,” she said. Harry nodded along to let her know he was getting everything. “It’s about… family history. You know.” She shrugged. “You’re in it.”

The saliva evaporated from Harry’s mouth so quickly that he took a moment to realize it had gone. “I’m in it?” he repeated dumbly. “How?”

Daumi shrugged, and smiled a crooked smile. “Not sure,” she said. “One of our ancestors knew you. You have a picture. It’s really old, but it’s you.”

“What was – ” Harry’s throat closed up and he had to stop talking. “Who was – who knew me?”

“What was her name?” Daumi muttered to Samenta.

“Ah,” Samenta said. She stared at the tree for a moment in thought. “… Zhinny?”

“Ginny?” Harry cried. “Ginny Weasley?!”

“It’s Wissly,” Daumi said.

“You’re – you’re Weasleys?! Wisslys,” he corrected himself.

No wonder, Harry thought. No wonder they looked so much like Ginny, no wonder they reminded him so much of Fred and George –

Before he could stop himself he had captured them both in a hug, squeezing as tightly as he could onto the first truly welcome and familiar thing about this whole surreal experience. They squeaked, but hugged him back. For a long, quiet moment they stood there, and Harry felt that maybe everything would all be alright. Even though they were being hunted by an ominous black shadow, even though there were still Death Eaters, even though he couldn’t really speak the language, even though the Dark Mark had been on the map of London and he kept being afraid to go to sleep… everything would be alright.

“Just for our names?” Daumi asked as they broke the hug. Harry wiped at his eyes, which had started to tear up, before replying.

“The Weasleys – Wisslys,” he corrected himself again. “Were my family. Because I’m an orphan.” They blinked at him. “Orphan?” he asked, trying a slightly different pronunciation, and to his relief they nodded.

“No parents?” Samenta asked.

“They died,” Harry said shortly. “Voldemort killed them.”

They gaped at him as soon as the word ‘Voldemort’ came from his mouth. Harry stilled, worried that he might have given too much away. They hadn’t reacted to the name much back in the crypt, though they’d obviously recognized it. But they didn’t know he was Harry Potter – or they didn’t seem to. He had barely noticed, somehow, but now that he realized they didn’t know, Harry found he had been sort of enjoying it.

Underneath all the general confusion, frustration, and panic, of course.

“Harry,” Samenta said slowly. “You’re really a _kaunk’ev?_ ”

“A what?” Harry said. “What is a _kaunk'ev?_ ” he elaborated, hoping he was pronouncing it right.

“A, a,” Samenta struggled. “Crap.”

She and Daumi shared another glance, and Daumi quickly turned on him. “It’s a person who fights the _Dahlcoat_ ,” she said. “Well – ” A nonsense word. “Or in the past,” she added, seeing his expression.

“What’s a… Dahlcoat?” Harry asked, tasting the strange word.

They stared at him. Harry stared back.

“You don’t know?!” Samenta cried.

“No?” Harry said.

“Dahlcoat Voldemort,” she said. “How do you not know? You said his name and all.”

Dahlcoat. Like Dark Lord? Or like Dark Coat? Again, the image was a little funny, or it should have been, but it left Harry feeling like he was standing naked in a blizzard.

“We call him the Dark Lord,” Harry said, to distract himself from the cold feeling.

“Dark Lord?” Samenta repeated. She was having trouble pronouncing the Rs.

“Weird,” said Daumi. “You fight him?”

“Well, yeah?” Harry said. “He’s evil.”

“Wild,” Samenta whispered. “You’re a _kaunk’ev_.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. They didn’t seem to have anything to say, either, because they stared at him in something that was approaching awe.

It made Harry very uncomfortable.

“Why is waking me up treason?” he blurted. But that, it turned out, was not a better distraction, because Samenta shrugged.

“It may not be,” she said. “But he was looking for us, and sending – ” nonsense “ – after us.” The strange word was probably ‘Death Eaters’. Harry hoped it was ‘Death Eaters’.

“But you’re Weas – Wisslys,” he said. “Are you with the Order?” Blank looks. “The Order of the Phoenix,” he clarified.

“What’s that?” Daumi asked.

“Ooh, I bet it’s a _kaunk’ev_ thing!” Samenta exclaimed, eyeing Harry with another strange, awe-filled look. “Tell us more.”

“But I – ”

Issa appeared at his arm. Harry jumped, pressing a hand to his heart, as she spoke. “Stop babbling,” she said. “We need to walk farther around.”

“Around?” Harry asked. He frowned back at the place where the city rose up before looking back at Issa. Mahi stood just behind her, eyes still faintly red and glaring pointedly away from the twins. His heart twinged guiltily beneath his ribs again. Issa didn’t reply to him, just waved her arms and started off, so Harry fell into step just behind Mahi. He wanted to say something to her – he wasn’t sure what, though. She hadn’t wanted to wake him up. Harry wanted to tell her that it had been the right thing to do anyway, to reassure whatever fear she was living under, but he didn’t know if he had enough of a grasp on the language to make her really _understand_ that.

Maybe later, he thought.

  


* * *

  


A few hours and far too much walking later, they came to a river. It flowed from an open archway set into the wall of the city, churning around moss- and algae-covered rocks, and a few sheets of twisted blackish metal that Harry was told very sternly not to touch. He didn’t touch them – they felt sharp, which was a very strange thing to say from just looking at something, but nevertheless he felt that way. When he looked at the pieces, it was as if somebody had pressed the tip of a wickedly sharp knife against his eyes.

The water, however, gouted around them apparently without care.

The thin columns were arrayed around the archway of the river as well, and there was some consternation about this. Harry still wasn’t sure what was going on with them. Sure, they were eerie. They made noises and swayed in a way stone didn’t usually sway. But they didn’t make his eyes feel that sharp feeling, not like the sheets of metal. In comparison to those, the stone columns didn’t feel at all malevolent.

As evening crept on after they had settled down for the night, he watched the needles through the trees. The more the sunlight disappeared, the more clearly he felt he could see a faint redness to them, as if they had been outlined by a child with a pen. Occasionally the light would shimmer and flicker, and Harry would see the needles sway more obviously for a moment.

He glanced over at Samenta, the only one still sitting up. She had nodded off, or was in the process of nodding off, forehead to knee.

Wishing for perhaps the hundredth time that he had his wand, Harry stood. After three days of overland travel, the bottoms of the socks he had been ‘buried’ in were all but destroyed, but at least being forced to walk around with bare feet meant he had softer footsteps. He made his way from the camp on tip-toe, trying to keep to the softer patches of grass, or to step only on moss. Samenta stirred once, but didn’t wake up.

There was more moss towards the archway, and so Harry stopped bothering to tip-toe. The needles hummed louder the closer he got, until he felt the thrum of it traveling through the ground and into his bones. They stopped swaying as he approached, too, and went rigid. Thin lines of red light spiralled across their surface, strange honeycomb-shapes that merged and broke apart without much pattern to them.

Harry stepped right up to one of them. The humming and thrumming ceased, at least from that one, and the honeycomb shapes all sped across the stone surface and coalesced right in front of him, shining brightly. This close, Harry could see a number of thin, barely-visible silvery lines stretched between this column and the two next to it. All of them were probably like that, he thought idly, reaching down to pick up a small rock. With a gentle underhand he tossed it between two columns.

There was a strange noise. Harry had never heard anything like it before. The remains of the rock lay on the moss on the other side of the column line, slit neatly into four or five tablet-shaped slices.

With a shiver, Harry pointedly stepped away from the space between the columns. The cluster of red shapes on the one next to him flashed and followed his movements, so he stopped and looked at it, wondering what it was meant to be. The red lines that from a couple days ago had been able to grab things, almost like a net or a snare. These weren’t the same shape as those had been, but they were the same red color. If he touched them, what would happen? Would anything happen?

Well, there was one way to figure that out. Harry pressed his fingertips to the rock where the cluster of honeycomb shapes hovered. They buzzed and vibrated beneath his skin, and began to crawl up his hand. It felt strange – he could feel them on him, so they had some weight to them, but they were just lights. The dissonance between his eyes and skin was making the space between his shoulder blades itch faintly, and he reached back with his free hand to try and scratch at it through the robe.

The strange feeling of the lights on his hand eased. No longer faintly prickly, it instead turned glossy, like he’d stuck his hand into water, but without the wetness. The thin stone column thrummed again, and there was a flash. The silver lines abruptly became visible between the column he was touching and the one to his right, and before he could do much more than register the spiderweb-like pattern, they had begun to untangle themselves and withdraw into the columns, which bent outwards until they were curved, like bows.

Weren’t they made of _stone?_ Harry stared at the new shapes. It certainly felt like stone under his fingers. Stone couldn’t just deform like that, could it?

For good measure, he went to get another stone. As soon as he pulled his hand free of the lights, the stone columns unbent and the silvery lines shot back out. Harry looked at this for a moment, before grabbing a new stone and going back to put his hand on the same column again. The red lights flickered and licked his skin, and the opening appeared again. Harry chucked the second stone through for good measure, and to his relief saw that it remained whole.

“Thanks,” he told the stone column. It didn’t reply to him.

He ran back to where the girls were sleeping, ignoring the small river-stones trying to cut into his feet. Samenta was still collapsed in on herself. Harry took her shoulder and started to shake her gently.

“Samenta,” he hissed. “Hey, Samenta.”

“Mrh,” she grumbled. Her arm moved to shake him off, but she lifted her head up anyway, blinking. “What? Oh crap, I fell asleep.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said excitedly. “We can go in!”

She frowned at him – or Harry thought she was probably frowning. It was hard to tell properly in the dark. “What?” she said again.

“Go into London!” Harry exclaimed.

“Right,” she said slowly. “We can.”

“Well, come on then,” Harry said. He tried to pull her to her feet.

“Harry, what are you talking about?” she asked him. “It’s on lockdown.”

“No, I can go in,” Harry said.

“Exactly!”

Harry stared at her for a moment. Samenta was probably staring back. Around them, the others were stirring, and Daumi said something muffled about ‘decent sleep’.

“I think we’re talking about two things,” Harry said slowly. “How do you say ‘can’?”

“Can,” Samenta said.

“What about can not?”

Her face went through a strange spasm of realization. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh no no no no. No, _keh_ , and _ken_ not.”

“Oh,” Harry said.

“What the hell is going on?” Daumi said irritably, appearing at Harry’s side and rubbing at her eyes.

“Harry was just confused,” Samenta said.

“I’m not,” Harry said. “Anymore. And I _can_ go in,” he added, making sure to use the right word this time. It was strange to say ‘can’ without the N at the end, but he was really tired of sleeping outside, for Merlin’s sake.

They both stared at him. Harry sighed and stepped away, gesturing at them to follow him. “Come on,” he said.

They followed him until he hopped out of the tree line. Before he could take another step, Samenta shot forwards and grabbed him by the arm, speaking quickly. “No!” she cried. “They’ll notice us!”

Harry looked quizzically at the stone columns. “They?” he repeated, feeling slow.

“Yes, they.” Samenta tugged at his arm again, and Harry let her drag him back to the treeline for a moment. “It’s not safe. Come on back.”

“But they opened for me?” Harry said.

More staring.

“I’m sorry,” said Daumi slowly. “They _what?_ ”

“They opened for me,” Harry repeated. “Look – ” He twisted his arm out of Samenta’s grasp. “I’ll show you.”

The columns hummed at him at he approached, quieting when he got closer. The honeycomb shapes seemed to be getting used to him, Harry thought – they almost leapt off of the column and onto his hand as he reached out, and the silvery spider-webs withdraw once again. He turned a bit so he could see Daumi and Samenta, who doing a good impression of a pair of fish, and pointed at the hole. “Look,” he said. “I threw a rock in before. It’s safe.”

The twins slowly turned to look at each other. Harry waited patiently for them to finish having whatever conversation they were having, and eventually, Daumi shot off back towards the others, and Samenta walked shakily closer, until she was standing right behind Harry.

“ _Omalloat_ ,” she said, staring at the bowed open columns. “Harry, _how?_ ”

“How what?”

“How can you open it?!” she cried, gesturing wildly at the hole. “This is a _sekwa_ lockdown!”

“A what lockdown?” Harry repeated. “How can a city be in lockdown, anyway? That doesn’t make sense.”

She eyed him as if he were an old piece of moldy fruit that she’d just found in the back of a pantry. Harry looked hopefully at her, but if she had been about to continue, it was interrupted by the rest of the girls returning, Issa still clutching a half-packed bag of bedroll.

“ _Omalloat!_ ” Mahi screeched when she saw him. “What is – how is he doing that?!”

Samenta looked at Harry again. “Well?” she said.

“I don’t know?” Harry said. “I just touched it and this happened.”

“This is fucked,” Daumi muttered.

“This is _awesome_ ,” Issa corrected.

“Let’s just go,” Mahi muttered, and shoved her way in past the columns. She didn’t stop until she was at the archway where the river came from, and then she stopped and slumped over with her hands on her knees.

The rest of the girls filed in, and Harry shuffled after them, making certain to keep holding the through-way open. The lights stretched a bit when he walked away, slipping from his hand like a handhold with somebody who did not want to stop holding hands. He watched in fascination as the red lights swirled into mere lines that vanished back into the stone, as the columns unbent and the silvery spiderweb reappeared.

The girls were chattering when he joined them – something about maps and tunnels, and something called a _lev_. A level, maybe? A levee? Samenta thrust something into his hands – Harry looked down to see that it was a small bracelet.

“Er,” he said.

“Put it on and twist it,” she told him. Harry gingerly slipped it around his wrist and twisted it – it spat light, and suddenly he could see very well despite the darkness. Everything was still discolored and grayish, but he could make out the shapes of things clearly.

“Huh,” he said. “That’s really useful.”

“Just try not to touch more things without asking,” she told him.

“Asking never works well for me,” Harry said before he could stop himself.

Samenta only rolled her eyes at him and pointed at the archway. The rest of the girls had already clambered in – there was a small ledge to the side that Harry hadn’t noticed before. He moved towards it and gingerly climbed up. Wet moss squelched unpleasantly under his feet, though at least the tunnel that they had only started to make their way through wasn’t at all noxious. It smelled fresh. He almost slipped a few times, but always managed to catch himself. Vines covered the wall, and Harry wondered if they were left alone for just that purpose. They hung from the ceiling, too, dangling down towards the moving water. Harry didn’t have time to stop and stare at them, not with Samenta right behind him urging him to keep moving, and soon the light had given way completely.

  


* * *

  


The tunnel continued for some time. After almost an hour, Harry realized that they were moving on a very, very slow grade up. He wanted to stop and ask where in the city they were, but the girls had all been quiet throughout the walk. It was very different from the wilderness, where they had chattered constantly, and the rush of the water set against nothing was making Harry feel cornered. He looked nervously around, and wondered if there was really something to be nervous about, or if he was only projecting in an effort to give meaning to the silence.

It was damp in the tunnel, and got damper and damper the further they went. The socks he was wearing were soaked up to his knee, and the heavy robe felt heavier than it had outside. He hoped they got to a building with a bathroom soon, so he could take them off.

Maybe another half hour in, they stopped. Harry tried to peer over the two shoulders in front of him, and saw a hand – it looked like Issa’s – wiping at the wall of the tunnel. She poked it two times, and there was a clicking sound. The stonework fell in, leaving a shadowed passage going off to the right. Issa whooped.

“I never thought I would love your – ” something “ – ways,” he heard Mahi say.

Issa chuckled, and started into the passage. Mahi and Daumi followed – Harry followed them, with no idea where they were going, and not enough nerve to try to ask.

Up the passage they went. It was a strange, grooved sort of incline, a cross between stairs and a ramp. It wasn’t wet, thank Merlin, but Harry held onto the walls just in case. The strange floor felt precarious, for all that the girls in front of him were scrambling up it just fine.

After some feet, the light grew, emanating from little gutters at the edges of the floor. They were slightly grimed by mold and lichen, but this muted the light enough that Harry wasn’t blinded so long as he squinted. He twisted the bracelet again – his strange ability to see in the dark vanished, but there was enough dim light for him to feel not much different about his ability to navigate. Around him, he heard another twist – so the girls had bracelets too.

As they climbed on, the walls become cluttered with graffiti. Most of the letter strings were too distorted for Harry to have any chance of reading them. A few, he felt, might have been initials. Some were animals – a dragon, a raven, a green and moss-colored phoenix with flowers trailing from its wings. There was even one of the solar system, or what he thought might be the solar system, carved out in a psychedelic color palette.

They stopped at a door. Harry craned his neck, and saw a small black sign stuck crookedly to it, printed with thin, handwritten white letters. _Á yó lautta dalevítt yus?_ it said.

“What?” Harry whispered.

“It says, are you allowed to use the _leveet_ ,” Samenta whispered to him.

“I still don’t know what a _leveet_ is,” Harry muttered to himself.

Up ahead, Issa was posturing at the sign. Apparently this was correct, because the door clanked open, and she started to hustle everyone into the small room beyond. The walls were covered with handles that didn’t seem to serve much purpose. It was a very tight squeeze, and Harry ended up crushed into a wall between the twins, arms pressed across his chest in an attempt to free up space. Issa flicked her fingers across the inside wall, and the walls pinged and vibrated. The door ground shut again, and with a jerk, the room started to move.

“Oh!” Harry cried as insight thrust itself upon him. “A _leveet_ is an elevator!”

The girls all turned to look at him for a moment. Issa gave him a thumbs up, and Harry grinned at her stupidly.

“Hold on,” she called. Harry and the rest grabbed for one of the handles – just in time, as the room rumbled and dropped. The top halves of the walls all pulled away, leaving them clinging to a hanging basket. Harry stared around, saw a cavernous, old urban space with large stone columns twisting up to the ceiling, collapsed and tilted metal catwalks and staircases, pipes and turbines and crumbled piles of stone. A thick, damp smell rose to his nose, but before he could look further to try and locate the cause, the basket shuddered and accelerated. Then they were racing through chambers and caverns, the occasional light flashing by in the corner of the eye, wind rushing through hair. Harry thought of Gringotts. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine that he was eleven again, taking that first cart ride to his vault with Hagrid next to him.

Mahi was screaming bloody murder. “I hate you, Issa!” she screeched. “I hate you so much!”

“One speed only,” Harry whispered to himself in proper English.

There was more graffiti on the distant, massive walls. Harry couldn’t imagine how long it must have taken to create works large enough to be beheld in full even at the speed they were moving. He saw a wall that mimicked the sunset seen from a mountaintop so well that he almost thought there wasn’t a wall there. There was a vast spiderweb covered in googly-eyed, cartoonish acromantula, and an abstract cloud of geometric shapes that didn’t mean anything but which somehow made his eyes water. In the back of his mind, Harry noticed that they were beginning to gain height, and he looked up.

The rail that the elevator-basket was hurtling along glowed a faint turquoise color in the darkness. They dipped down abruptly to pass into the next large chamber, where the ceiling was entirely taken up by a deep black and red snake curled around the planet Earth. Harry stared at it, a strange feeling in his gut that he didn’t want to examine, and then in the next moment he was whisked away from it.

They shot upwards suddenly in the next chamber, no longer moving horizontally. Everyone bent down a bit under the force of the acceleration, and Harry’s eyes watered. Then they were slowing, and far faster than Harry had expected, they slid to a stop. There was nothing around them that they could climb out onto – for a moment Harry worried that something had gone wrong. Instead, a piece of floor slid out of the wall to meet them, and a door shimmered into existence across the way.

Mahi tripped out of the basket first and fell to her knees, pressing her forehead to the stone. “ _Omalloat_ ,” she mumbled. “Never again. Never.”

“I feel sick,” Samenta mumbled, and shoved her way out next. Daumi followed her, and together they staggered over towards the door.

“You guys are no fun,” Issa said.

Harry glanced at her. She was grinning ear-to-ear, a flush rising on her cheeks. He thought he recognized the look. He’d worn it quite a lot himself, after all, and he could feel one just like it on his own face right now. He always had liked the Gringotts cart rides far more than most.

“Well, I’d do that again,” he told her.

She lost her grin for a moment as she looked at him in shock. He gave her a thumbs-up, and the grin slowly returned. “New best friend!” she cried, launching herself at him with her hand held out. “High five!” Harry slapped her hand and she shrieked with laughter.

“No,” Mahi moaned in the background. “We don’t need another Issa!”

“You have another Issa!” Issa proclaimed, stepping out of the elevator-basket with all the pomp and swish of even Snape or Voldemort at their best. Harry hopped out after her, still feeling the aftershocks of the adrenaline rush. It didn’t matter that it was probably the middle of the night. He had absolutely no desire to go to sleep anyway.

Samenta and Daumi were having issues with the door. Issa opened it in a moment, and they all filed through and up the short flight of ramp-stairs beyond. This time Harry found himself up front with his self-proclaimed ‘new best friend’, and he peered keenly around at the room beyond the incline.

Well – it wasn’t quite a room. It was more of an alleyway thick with vegetation and overgrown rubbish. Buildings rose steeply to either side with colorful awnings and canopy flaps sticking out over windows and balconies. In the distance, out of sight, Harry could hear a rush of water, and lights flashed and flickered in the sky. The immediate surroundings, though, were still and quiet, and quite dark, as well – Harry remembered abruptly that it was still nighttime.

“Let’s scoot,” Issa whispered.

They scooted. Harry couldn’t stop staring, but couldn’t get much of a good glance at anything, either, as he was pushed firmly along at pace. Issa turned left down another, slightly less leafy alleyway with a dirt path across the middle, and then right down another.

Samenta shoved her way between the two of them and grabbed at Issa’s shoulder. “This is At’ih!” she hissed at her.

“Yeah?” Issa said, blinking at the twin. “You and Daumi share a flat, right?”

“Yeah but – ”

“You have more space. We gotta – ” something “ – and plan. And crash on your couches.”

Samenta pulled away and scowled. “I’m not cooking.”

“Okay.” Issa shrugged.

“Harry gets the couch,” Daumi called from the back of the group. “You lot get the floor.”

“Sure, whatever,” said Issa, before Harry could object on her behalf.

Samenta went ahead of them both now. “I know a faster way,” she said. “C’mon.”

They slipped down a side-alley that Harry never would have guessed was there, covered as it was with the thick, wide leaves of a grape vine. It was a tight squeeze, and they had to go single file, but after a long and twisting walk through foliage, Samenta stepped to one side and opened a door.

“In,” she said. They filed in. Harry almost tripped over the stoop in his haste to wipe his feet on the mat. The room inside was dark and cluttered by lumpy furniture and stacks of books, parchment, and odds and ends. The sight of it looked enough like the Burrow that he almost sat right down in the doorway and started to cry.

Samenta closed the door and rapped her knuckles against it. A bright aqua glow zipped around the frame before going away. “Okay,” she said. “We’re good?” She phrased it like a question, for some reason, rather than a statement.

“Good for now,” Mahi said shortly. She picked something out of her hair and wrinkled her nose at it. “Let’s just sleep. Please.”

In short order Mahi had fallen onto one of the armchairs, and Issa had vanished to parts unknown. Harry busied himself with cleaning the mud and moss-ooze and dirt from his feet, and Samenta and Daumi were doing something to the couch that involved turning it into something more like a bed. A pile of books fell over. Mahi made an unhappy noise, pulled her legs up, and tugged a stray throw blanket over her head.

Harry hesitated before stepping onto the floor. Nothing alarming happened, and he wasn’t leaving disgusting footprints, so he made his way carefully to where the twins were messing about. “Hey?” he asked.

“Give us a minute,” Daumi said. With one final heave, they finished pulling out the couch.

“Shoulda spelled it,” Samenta said.

“Ew,” Daumi replied to her. She turned to Harry. “What’s up?”

“I was, er, wondering if you had a bathroom,” Harry said. “And. Maybe some robes I could borrow?”

“… We’ve got… tunics?” Samenta said slowly. “No robes, though.”

“Oh, right,” said Harry. “That’s fine. I just don’t want to wear these anymore.” He gestured at himself.

“Eh. Valid.”

Daumi led him into – he assumed it was their bedroom. Clothes covered the floor, and more books, but mostly clothes. Harry stood awkwardly in the doorway while she rummaged around in a dresser, flinging things out and onto the floor. To his horror, one of the items turned out to be a pair of panties, and he quickly turned and faced the hallway, face burning.

“Here,” she said after another moment, thrusting a pair of loose pants and some kind of tunic into his hands. “We just have a shower. Is that fine?”

“Perfect,” Harry said in relief, clutching the clothes to his chest.

She led him into a small, cramped bathroom at the other end of the hall and demonstrated how to work the bathtub knobs. The shower was cold, and he couldn’t figure out how to make it warmer, but it was no worse than some of the cold showers he’d endured at the Dursleys as a child. It was relaxing, especially with the lights still out. The pants Daumi had picked out for him were loose, but smooth and comfortable, and the pale tunic had a narrow dip at the chest like a polo shirt. It looked like it ought to be able to button up, but for the life of him Harry couldn’t figure out what or where the button was supposed to be. Maybe it had been velcro, he thought, and it had worn off.

It didn’t really matter. He shoved the ‘burial’ robes into the corner nearest to the toilet, determined to never touch them again, and went to collapse into the armchair next to Mahi. He even managed to fall asleep without imagining Voldemort’s voice in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: ANSWERS!
> 
> Two chapters from now: FINALLY SOME VOLDEMORT POV!
> 
> Edit: put back a word that somehow got blipped out in the upload process.
> 
> Please take a look at [this gorgeous and wonderful fanart](http://bit.ly/34TUSDw) made for this chapter! It was done by [sourboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonashootme/pseuds/sourboy) <3.


	5. Xut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _xut_ (n) an accurate representation of reality; a true statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Significant progress made in my outline has indicated that we're going to get to my planned midpoint/pivot point around chapter 25. Therefore I have upped the projected chapter count to 50, as I said I was probably going to do. Hope y'all enjoy epic AUs :)

* * *

  


_Harry_ , Voldemort murmured in his ear. _Did I not take such good care of you, Harry?_

 _No_ , Harry said to the Dark Lord. His voice was muffled, obstructed by the gauzy veil that the dream placed upon reality. _You didn’t._

Voldemort said nothing, and he awoke. The first thing he noticed was that his neck ached from the position it had been forced into by sleeping on an armchair. The second thing he noticed was that there was some kind of an argument going on behind him, but his ears weren’t yet awake enough to try to work at deciphering the meaning of it. Instead, he groaned, and stretched his legs.

Though it was now light out, and the room looked different – Harry could see more of the details – it still felt homely. He liked that, and tried to take a moment to himself while he waited for his spine to loosen back up – both because of the position he’d slept in, and because of the dream he could now only faintly recall.

It was nice to wake up every morning in the same place you’d fallen asleep in. Harry had never really taken the time to appreciate it before.

He looked towards the pulled-out couch and saw Issa flopped face down into a pillow. Her entire left side dangled off the low edge of the cushions and draped over the carpeted floor. She was still out, if the faint snoring noises were any indication, and Harry smiled despite himself as he remembered how Ron used to sleep in a similarly gormless way.

The thought stilled him. Hermione was dead. Probably – there was a question there, but not a large one. If Hermione was dead, what about Ron? How much time had passed, and – the more important question – _how had they died?_

It didn’t feel real. Maybe he was still in that coffin. Maybe this was a fever dream that Draught of Living Death induced in its victims. How would he know?

Issa let out a particularly loud snore and adjusted the position of her head. Harry remembered how much his neck was aching, and stretched his arms, trying to dislodge the crick in his bones. It didn’t work very well – maybe he could ask if they had hot water, and take another shower. It was a miracle his glasses hadn’t dug obonxiously into his temple the way they always seemed to when he fell asleep with them still on. Maybe his luck had finally changed.

He picked his way around the piles of odds and ends, and found himself in a cramped kitchen. Mahi was sitting sullenly at a small wooden table, drinking a glass of orange juice, and Samenta sat across from her, picking at a bowl of something. Daumi was nowhere in sight, but the kitchen was a good one, well-stocked despite its smallness. Harry liked it immediately.

“Hello,” he said.

Mahi’s eyes flickered up at him, and she drank from her glass again. Samenta turned and grinned. “Hey Harry!” she said. “Is Issa still asleep?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, looking more carefully around the room. Sunlight filtered in through the small window in the opposite corner, despite the greenery that tried its best to obscure the view. Harry caught enough of a sense of red to imagine that he saw a brick wall across the way, but that was all he could manage. The sink was dripping desultorily, and the small stove looked strange. Harry couldn’t tell what either of them were made of, and the stove didn’t look like the stove in the Dursleys’ house had. It had more of a wood-burning feel to it, but somehow managed to remain sleek.

A flickering to the left caught his eye, and he turned and looked. There was a small screen set into the wall, though when he looked closer it seemed to be floating a few millimeters beyond it. It oscillated in a way that made Harry’s eyes water, but before he could register the fact that the screen was the cause, it resolved itself into something solid. The watering vanished, replaced by an unwelcome but familiar cold feeling in his gut. A little black square with the Dark Mark painted onto it in white blinked at him, snake curling in on itself and back in a way Harry remembered from the few times he had seen Snape’s Mark, or the results of a _Morsmordre_.

“Um,” he said slowly, turning back to look at the girls. He pointed over his shoulder at the screen. “What – I mean – ” He had no idea what he was asking.

“It’s the sigil of Voldemort,” Mahi said. Samenta looked lost and worried.

“I know that,” Harry said. “Why’s it here?”

“Because – ”

“Um!” Samenta yelled, cutting Mahi off. She was glared at for her troubles, but Mahi stopped explaining.

“What,” the dark-eyed girl snapped.

“He’s a _kaunk’ev_ ,” Samenta said with an air of authority. “Let him eat something first.”

“I still don’t know what that means,” Harry tried to say, but his words were completely drowned by Mahi’s screech.

“He’s a what?!” she yelled.

“Calm down,” Samenta said. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Is too a big deal?!” Mahi yelled. Her knuckles were white around her glass. “It’s a really fucking big deal!”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Harry said again, a little louder. They either hadn’t heard him, or they had, but were ignoring him. He fought the urge to sulk.

“Breakfast first,” Samenta said. “Let him eat something.”

“I’d rather have a shower?” Harry tried with a wince.

They heard him that time. Samenta squinted at him. “Didn’t you use the shower last night?” she asked.

“I did,” Harry allowed. “But I didn’t use any soap. Er. I didn’t know what was what. Also it was cold. Can it be warm? Do you have hot water?”

They blinked in time with his questions. Mahi curled protectively over the remnants of her orange juice, and Samenta stood and moved towards the stove. “Daumi’s in there now,” she said. “You can go when she’s done. I’ll show you what everything is and how to use it.” The stove dropped open like a mouth. “In the meantime, there’s instant porridge if you want. And there’s bread in the box there.” She nudged him in the side and pointed to a breadbox that had cursive lettering on it. It was far too intricate for Harry to have been able to read it even if the word had been in proper English. As it was, he had no chance and he knew it. Porridge wasn’t his favorite, either, but Harry knew better than to refuse food freely offered. “Thanks,” he said.

When Samenta didn’t move to get oven mitts for him, he gingerly reached into the stove’s belly and retrieved a bowl. Fortunately it was merely warm, not burning hot, and the spoon must not have been made of metal, because it was a similar temperature – easy to touch. Harry stirred it, and found garnishes as desired based on Samenta’s directions into different cupboards.

He wanted to ignore the Dark Mark again – just like he’d been doing throughout their entire weird journey. He wanted to wait until after he’d eaten and showered to find out anything about Voldemort, but at the same time he knew that he could hardly keep ignoring the Mark every time it popped up. The coffin lid – the map – a screen in Samenta and Daumi’s flat, for Merlin’s sake. And they knew who Voldemort was, but the sound of the name didn’t make them panic. If he’d still been in charge, Harry would have expected them to panic. The lack seemed to say that Voldemort was old news – the screen inside a flat seemed to say that he was still relevant.

But then again, Harry thought suddenly. Maybe it was – maybe the Dark Mark didn’t have anything to do with Voldemort anymore. Maybe it was just a symbol that meant… What could it mean?

Well, maybe it would be enough if it just didn’t mean Voldemort.

He pulled out the third chair and sat down, stirring his porridge pensively.

“Tell me about the Dark Mark,” he heard himself say.

“It’s – ”

“You should eat first,” Samenta interrupted Mahi again.

“I’m eating,” Harry said, and took a bite of his porridge somewhat angrily. It was average. “Please just tell me.”

“See? Even he knows he needs to know,” Mahi said.

Samenta flushed and ran a hand through her hair. It was down, Harry realized, for the first time since he’d known her. “But, I mean,” she said. Then she stopped and pursed her lips.

“He needs to know,” Mahi insisted.

“Yeah, I do,” Harry said, glancing warily at Mahi. She was still glaring at him, but she didn’t complain about his piggypacking off of her argument.

Samenta ran her hands into her hairline and groaned. “What about it?” she finally said after a long moment.

“Why’s it there?”

“It’s the – ” something “ – logo,” Mahi said. She waved an empty spoon towards the screen where the Mark flickered.

“I didn’t, uh, get that?” Harry said. “The what logo?”

“ _Nelse_ ,” she repeated slowly. “It’s… of a _kashih_.”

“Errr.”

“ _Omalloat_ ,” she snapped. “You know the name Voldemort, right? You said it before.”

“Yeah,” Harry said grouchily. “I know him.”

“Well, he’s – he’s the Dahlcoat,” she said simply. “He rules here.”

He rules here, Harry thought dumbly. As if –

“He’s not,” he started, and then had to stop because he didn’t know where he was going with it. “He’s alive?”

Mahi gave him a suspicious look. “Of course he’s alive,” she said. “He’s immortal.”

“Merlin, he’s still around?” Harry said as the bottom dropped from his stomach. “What about the Order? What about all the rebel groups?! What about Hermione and the letter we wrote about the horcruxes?! Bloody hell!” He was so worked up that he almost knocked over his porridge with his elbow – Samenta caught it for him. Mahi, on the other hand, was eying him like he was about to fly off some handle and start shooting curses everywhere.

“What’s,” Harry gasped – another question whose proper direction he didn’t know. “How is – I mean – why?”

“Why?” they chorused.

“Why is he still around?!” Harry cried.

“… Because,” Samenta said slowly. “He’s the Dahlcoat? He’s always ruled Britain?”

“No he hasn’t!” Harry cried. “We were a democracy!”

“What, really?” Samenta said. Her eyes widened and she leaned closer to him, looking fascinated. “A democracy? Really? Did it actually work?”

“Harry?” Mahi asked. Harry decided to pay attention to her, because he definitely didn’t know enough about the Ministry of Magic or Parliament to be able to talk about them. He only knew that Britain was supposed to be a democracy.

“Yeah?” he said.

“What year is it for you?”

“What?” he blinked.

“When you went to sleep,” she clarified. “What year was it for you?”

Harry stilled.

“… 1998,” he finally said, the numbers dragging themselves from his mouth like a fish-hook from a captured fish bound for the icebox.

The silence that fell was in no way encouraging.

“… Er,” he said, when he couldn’t stand the shocked stares and the hand-covered mouths anymore. “What… what year is it now?”

“I…” Samenta said slowly.

“3016,” Mahi said after a deep breath.

For a split second, Harry thought perhaps he would be able to respond reasonably to that. ‘No way,’ he’d say. ‘That’s ridiculous.’ He wanted to say that – or maybe to be like Hermione, and ask what the hell had happened in the intervening time to turn _London_ into _Lahdah_ , and why Voldemort had somehow escaped all the consequences that passing time would usually see on a hated and feared dictator.

Instead, he tasted bitter herbs on his tongue, and the room spun, and he couldn’t breathe for fear that he was going to fall asleep and never wake up again. What little breath he did have settled for making its way out of his lungs in gasping, wheezed giggles.

“It’s not,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “You’re having me on.”

Samenta reached over and hesitantly squeezed his shoulder. Harry couldn’t work up enough anger to shake her off, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

3016\. He tried to wrap his head around it, but no matter how he turned the numbers over in his mind, they still did not make sense. 3016. Three thousand and sixteen. A decade and six years since 3000. He barely remembered being one or two years old, so if you thought about it that way, Harry only had about sixteen years worth of memories. Sixteen years since 3000, long enough for Harry to experience practically his entire life up to now – but then it had been a _thousand_ years since 2000, and Harry hadn’t even seen 2000, for all that it had been two years away, and 1997 and 1998 had seemed eternal in their constant state of fugitive terrorism – throwing dungbombs into Death Eater headquarters and running away as fast as possible so Harry could sneak in the back window while they were all distracted and try to find any sense of where Voldemort might be living, and thus where they might find Nagini.

A thousand years before 1998 had been so long ago that Harry didn’t even know what had been happening then! They didn’t teach it in history class to muggle children because it had been so long ago, and then Harry had been at Hogwarts, and History of Magic had only ever talked about Britain, had acted like history began when Hogwarts had been founded – which had been over a thousand years before 1998, Harry suddenly remembered, as a memory from his first year floated back to consciousness. 1991 had been the year immediately after the thousandth anniversary of Hogwarts founding. He had overheard Fred and George talking about their ‘massive anniversary prank’ with nostalgia – he remembered Oliver Wood exclaiming happily about how there was finally proper house quidditch again, because in anniversary year a massive free-for-all tournament had been held instead.

But Hogwarts was _so old_ , and –

“Harry?!” Samenta cried from very far away, and Harry realized that he wasn’t breathing.

He gasped, or tried to gasp, but nothing entered his lungs. Devil’s snare wrapped crushingly around his chest, and he could only see a bit of the surface of the table, surrounded by a black tunnel. He was cold – he was shaking – he was numb, and he couldn’t breathe, and he felt very far away from his own body.

Somebody hugged him, and the shock of it finally forced air into his lungs. Harry gasped, feeling the snare-like crushing slowly trickle away as he found breath again. Slowly, his vision cleared, and the numb coldness began to dissipate. Issa was wedged onto the seat with him, hugging him tightly, while Samenta and Mahi stood by looking stricken.

Harry sucked in one last long breath and let his head flop limply onto Issa’s shoulder. He felt weak, and entirely unrested, despite having just woken up. “What happened?” he mumbled.

“I’m so sorry,” Mahi said.

“I think you had a panic attack,” Issa said. She slowly released him, and Harry slumped back in the chair. The porridge was still in front of him. It did not look appetizing anymore, so he pushed it listlessly away.

“I don’t know what that is,” he said.

“You just had one,” Issa said. She kept a hand on his shoulder and frowned. “Have you ever had one before?”

“No,” Harry whispered.

She nodded and glanced back at Samenta and Mahi. “Let’s not talk about current events for now,” she said.

“No!” Harry cried. “I’m fine,” he said. It was more for himself than for them. “I’m fine. I need to know.”

“Not much good knowing if it makes you panic.”

“Not knowing is worse,” Harry insisted.

Issa squinted at him. “At least take a break before more,” she said. “Maybe think of specific questions that we can answer.”

“Right,” Harry said faintly. That seemed reasonable. “Is – can I use the shower now? Is it free?”

“Of course it’s free,” Samenta said incredulously. “I’ll see if Daumi’s done.”

Something about this exchange seemed a little off to Harry, but he didn’t have the energy to ask after it. Instead he sat in the kitchen silently with Issa and Mahi, as they all stared awkwardly at some point in the room that wasn’t each other.

  


* * *

  


The bathroom was free, or rather, Daumi was finished. She tried to hand Harry back the ‘burial’ robes when he and Samenta passed her in the hallway, and Harry couldn’t hold back his snarl of disgust.

“No,” he spat. “I don’t want them. Burn them.”

The look Daumi gave him made him think that she desperately wanted to ask him why, but Samenta shook her head, and she said nothing. Harry was grateful. He didn’t think he had the energy to try and explain with his questionable vocabulary just why those robes were so terrible.

The water could indeed be warm. Samenta did this by twisting her fingers oddly in the air over the on/off plate, and then gestured for Harry to try. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing, but copied her. As he turned his fingers, the water guttered in the faucet and stopped running.

“Oh crap,” he mumbled, and peeked over his shoulder at Samenta. “Sorry?”

She was staring at him.

“Er,” he tried.

“Harry,” she said slowly. “Do you have magic?”

“Yeah?”

“You have magic,” she repeated.

“Yeah,” Harry said again, bewildered by this chain of questions. “Er. I don’t have my wand, though.”

“Your what?” She looked bewildered in turn, but moved on before Harry could figure out how to answer her question. “Nevermind. You can’t cancel the _lee_ like that, it’ll turn off the water.”

Harry looked back at the dull ceramic-like plate set into the wall. It seemed inert, but the rune inscribed into it had changed. He tapped it hesitantly, and watched at the little sigil blinked into a different shape, like an analog clock. The water started to rush forth again, but it was still cold. With a hesitant glance at Samenta’s encouraging face, he tried again to make the twisting shape that changed the temperature, and yet again the water guttered.

“I don’t understand,” he said, frustrated.

“You’re capping the _lee_ ,” Samenta said again. She leaned over and pushed his hand away, replacing it with her own. “Just let it flow properly, watch.”

She twisted her hand smoothly and the water rushed out to meet it. Steam rose from the interior of the tub.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Harry. “I moved my hand and it just turned off. How am I supposed to see what this _lee_ is if I’m just moving my hand in the air?”

She blinked at him. “… You can’t feel it?” she asked.

“No?” Harry said. “It’s just air.”

She opened her mouth, and then closed it again. “I don’t know how to explain,” she said, looking upset. “Just – here.” She flicked a couple of fingers at the air again, and the water changed from a thick stream into a spray from the showerhead. “Is that temperature good?”

Harry stuck his hand in. It was fine.

“Just don’t touch the rune, alright?” Samenta said. “I’ll see if I can – I’ll look for a primer.” She handed him a towel and then she was gone. The curtain door fluttered slightly behind her.

It was either fiddle with the plate again and risk the water shutting off, or perhaps accidentally exploding the pipes, or getting into the shower. Harry chose to just ignore it for now. He didn’t have the energy to dwell on it – he would only frustrate himself. Carefully, he pulled off his loaned clothes and hung them up with the towel before he went to take off his glasses – he’d forgotten to last night, probably because it was dark. Yet strangely enough, he found he couldn’t grasp them. It was like they kept slipping away – but they must have been on his face, he thought. He could see just fine.

Harry looked in the mirror, hoping his confusion would resolve itself, and couldn’t see anything.

Rather, he saw himself perfectly clearly. He had bags under his eyes, but then again, that had become somewhat constant during the year and a bit of being a fugitive from Voldemort’s autocratic violence. His hair was messier than usual – his scar looked just the same as always – he could see a hint of ribcage under the skin of his torso, but again, that was normal. But the missing part of the picture, and the ultimate problem, was that his glasses were absolutely nowhere to be seen.

He brought a hand up and watched his reflection feel desperately at the bridge of his nose. There was nothing there. Now that he thought about it, he realized that there hadn’t been anything there the whole time. He had been reflexively pushing nothing up the bridge of his nose throughout their entire journey to London – Lahdah – _whatever_. But because he could see just fine, he had just assumed – he had been ignoring the fact that he could not feel anything there.

Where were his glasses? Why could he see even without them –

Harry shuddered and forced himself to get into the shower instead. He couldn’t deal with this right now.

  


* * *

  


Harry stepped from the shower with three certainties in his mind.

First: Voldemort was still alive and kicking, or perhaps crucio-ing, to his heart’s content.

Second: Issa and Samenta and Daumi and Mahi had rescued him anyway, at risk to themselves, which meant that Britain hadn’t laid down and surrendered totally yet. There was still hope, and what with Harry’s knowledge of horcruxes, they might still have a chance. The thought reassured him, and everything didn’t seem so wildly out of control anymore. There was Voldemort, and here he was, rescued by the rebellion, so of course he’d help them.

Harry could barely imagine what a thousand years of war would have done to the country. But perhaps that was why London was now so different, and why the wilderness was so barren of human life. Harry imagined that perhaps the fifteen new skylines had been built up just as new and more complicated ways of demarcating territory and protecting resources. Yes, he thought, that made a lot of sense.

His third certainty was that he needed to join the fight immediately. He would need a new wand – his heart cried out at the thought, but he forced himself to bear it. At least he was still alive.

He threw his clothes back on and hurried back to the kitchen, intent on taking action. He had had quite enough of sitting around in confusion and trying to understand what was going on. He was going to _do_ something.

The girls had moved from kitchen to sitting room. Issa had laid the ‘burial’ robes out on the pulled-out couch and was examining them intently, while the twins sat in the armchairs and Mahi paced around the very small amount of open floor space.

“Why do you want these burned?” Issa asked him when he came in. “They’re so cool and old.”

“They’re terrible,” Harry said. “I don’t care what you do with them, just get them away from me.”

“I’m keeping them, then.” She started to fold them up. Harry crossed his arms and looked away until they had vanished into one of her pouches.

“I want to join,” he said without preamble as soon as they had gone. “Where can I sign up? Who do I have to talk to?”

Silence met his proclamation.

“Sign up for what? Talk to who?” Issa finally asked.

“The Order,” Harry said. “Or whatever you’re calling themselves now. People like you.”

Issa’s dark brown eyes crossed slightly as she concentrated – not on him, but in his direction. “Right,” she said slowly, and cast a glance at Samenta and Daumi, who looked bewildered. Mahi was just glaring faintly at him, but Harry had started to accept that that was normal for her. Maybe he just wasn’t being clear enough.

“The rebellion,” he said. “People who fight Voldemort.”

“I fucking told you!” Mahi suddenly yelled. She pointed at him, but her glare had switched to the twins. “Why am I the only one with any sense?”

“Harry’s nice!” Samenta said, waving her hands in the air. “He’s just – ”

Mahi yelled again, so Harry didn’t get to hear what he was ‘just’. “You can’t know that, you only met him two days ago!”

“Three,” Samenta said.

“I don’t think it counts when they can’t talk to you.”

“I can understand you now,” Harry said, “so can you stop talking about me like I’m not here? That’d be great.”

Mahi glanced at him quickly. “Sami,” she said. Then – a string of nonsense. But it sounded different than the strings of nonsense that had sounded in Harry’s ears before he had figured out how to speak their language – Ilkis – properly. Even in the crypt, Harry had felt as if he ought to be able to understand it. It had been familiar. This was not at all familiar.

“Mahi,” Daumi said. “That was kind of rude.”

“And he wouldn’t do that, anyway” Samenta said. “Right Harry?”

“Wouldn’t do what?” he asked.

“Attack us.”

Harry’s eyes flew to Mahi involuntarily. Had she really suggested that he might attack them? “No,” he said, trying to put all his visceral disgust at the idea into his voice. “No way. Why would I do that?”

“See?”

“He’s a _kaunk’ev_ ,” Mahi said viciously. “It’s what he does.”

“I still don’t know what that is,” Harry said loudly.

“ _Omalloat_ ,” Issa said. Harry jumped, suddenly reminded that she existed, and turned just in time to watch her put an arm around his shoulders. “Harry,” she said. “You are my _kaunk’ev_ best friend now, alright?”

“Er.”

She prodded him in the chest. “Say yes.”

“Alright?” he tried weakly.

“I am going to explain you a thing.” She glanced around at the rest of group. “These fools didn’t take deep history classes in school.”

“I know plenty – ” tried Mahi.

“You’re just quoting civics bylines!” Issa griped.

“But he’s a _kaunk’ev_.”

Issa ignored her and turned back to Harry. “New best friend,” she said. “Mahi and the twins said that you said you were from 1998?”

Harry nodded.

“So!” She clapped her hands together. “You lived through the original _faunahdeah_ , right?”

Harry took a moment to translate the new word. “… Finding day?” he tried.

“Close,” she said. “That’d be _fannahdeah_. _Faunah_ as in ‘found’.”

“… Founding day?”

“Yes!” Issa crowed. “The original founding day, in 1997! August 1st?”

Bill and Fleur’s wedding? Why was that –

Harry abruptly remembered what else had happened on August 1st in 1997. He leaned away involuntarily. “It’s called _what?_ ”

“Founding day,” Issa repeated.

“That’s the day the Ministry fell,” Harry said.

“Ministry?” she said. “Oh, right, duh. Yeah, the old government. But there was still fighting, right?”

“Of course,” Harry said.

“You were one of them?”

“Of course!”

“So you were a _kaunk’ev_ ,” she said. “You were fighting against the new established government because you wanted the Ministry to come back. That is what a _kaunk’ev_ is.”

Harry still couldn’t tell what sort of word _kaunk’ev_ was supposed to have come from. But at least now he knew what it meant, and he smiled at Issa in relief. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Then yes, I am a… _kaunk’ev_.”

She nodded imperiously. “Is that all straightened out, then?” she asked, glancing around at the other girls. “We agree Harry is a _kaunk’ev_ from 1998.”

Mahi nodded tightly. The twins were more enthusiastic – Samenta gave a thumbs up. “That makes sense,” she said. “Our whatever-great-aunt who had the picture of him was a _kaunk’ev_ , too.”

“That sounds right,” Harry said. He felt simultaneously happy to hear that Ginny was still remembered so far in the future, and terribly, awfully empty to think that she had died – probably centuries ago. That she was almost as old as –

Don’t think about it so hard, he reminded himself, as the vertigo threatened to overcome him. He thumped his chest and took a deep breath, which seemed to help.

Issa had taken the meantime to turn back to him. “So, friend _kaunk’ev_ ,” she said. “In 1998, you – what? What was going on exactly?”

“… Just things?” Harry tried. He could barely remember what had been going on in early October, now that he thought about it. His memories were consumed by the week after he had been separated from Ron and Hermione, and the time he’d spent in the dungeons after being caught – _not_ being tortured, which was really the strangest thing about the entire experience. “I think we were planning, um…” What had they been planning? It had had something to do with one of the Snatcher posts. “A raid?” he tried. “On a. A base. We wanted to steal their radio equipment,” he remembered suddenly, “because Fred and George and Lee’s stuff had been busted a couple of weeks ago and we needed to get Potterwatch back up as fast as possible.”

Issa frowned. “I know ‘radio’,” she said slowly. “Fred and George and Lee are people?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Actually,” he said, and looked at Samenta and Daumi. “Fred and George were Weas – sorry, Wisslys,” he told them excitedly. “Twins, too. You remind me of them.”

Daumi stared up at him with a reverent look on her face. “You have to tell us everything,” she said.

“I will – ”

“Later,” Mahi said.

Harry shot her a short glare, though he didn’t have much heart for it. “Fine, later,” he said.

“What’s a snatcher, exactly?” Issa asked. “Is that slang?”

“That’s just what we called the… mercenaries?” Harry tried. “People who were working for Voldemort who weren’t officially Death Eaters.”

“Oh, right, okay. Potterwatch?”

“Our radio channel. Fred and George ran it – it warned people about Death Eater raids if we knew about them and let people tell other people that they were alive and okay, and about when Voldemort went – more public,” Harry said, “where we thought he would be.”

“Oh shit, are you talking about the Lightning Network?” Issa said. Her eyes widened and she clapped her hands together in front of her mouth, grinning widely. “That’s so fucking cool.”

“Lightning Network?” Harry repeated.

“That was the biggest _kaunk’ev_ radio network. It lasted the longest,” Issa informed him, “and had the best information until it got taken down.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said weakly, trying and failing to imagine the scope of what she was talking about. “We just called it Potterwatch, even when we weren’t using it for that anymore. Sort of a joke.”

“Who’s Potter?” Mahi asked. “Why were you watching him?”

“Er,” said Harry. “Just some guy.”

He was absolutely certain that they could tell he was lying, but nobody called him out, despite Mahi’s suspicious look. Issa moved on with her questions, and Harry felt grateful all over again. “So did you get the radio?” she said.

“We did,” Harry said. “But I got separated from the rest. I got away, but I missed the code for the next safehouse, so.” He scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I had to hide out near a town and hope I figured something out. I ran out of food and did something stupid and got caught.”

It really had been stupid, he realized now. Why had he just assumed that a muggle grocery would be safe? He wanted to go back in time and kick himself, or maybe drag himself back into the woods and just head for the last empty safehouse he remembered and hope for the best.

“This is fun and all,” Mahi said, as Issa put on a thinking face. “But it doesn’t explain why you’re not dead, if you got caught.”

“That is a good question,” Harry said hopelessly. “I have _no_ bloody idea. He’s still alive, though, maybe we could ask him.”

That put a stop to the suspicious looks for a moment, in favor of surprise. “What?” Mahi repeated.

“Voldemort was trying to kill me for years,” Harry said, waving his hands to better punctuate the statement. “Years! Every time I escaped he got more and more pissed off, so when I got thrown in a dungeon and he showed up I thought ‘oh well, good show Harry, now just get as many digs in as you can before one of his killing curses hits you’. But he didn’t kill me, he just – ”

His arms fell back to his sides.

Just, Harry thought dully. Voldemort had _just_ drugged him to sleep for a thousand years. No big deal.

 _But I took such good care of you_, he imagined the whispered hiss saying in the back of his mind.

Harry shook his head and sat down on the couch, feeling dizzy.

“… Weird mysteries aside,” Issa said. “When you got caught it was still war everywhere?”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“Right.” She clapped her hands together again. “So, Harry. You just came straight from the most vicious parts of the Post-founding war. That one lasted until…” She counted on her fingers. “2000?” She tapped a hand at the back of her neck, and there was a faint whirring noise. “2000,” she said decisively.

2000, Harry thought dully. Only two more years?

“Why does this matter?” Mahi asked.

“Because our son just came from a war zone!” Issa said, gesturing at him. (Their son? Harry thought.) “War zones are a particular kind of way for people’s brains. He thinks we’re still fighting.”

“Aren’t you?” Harry interrupted desperately. “You must be. There must be somebody fighting him. He’s evil.”

“What does that even mean?” Mahi muttered.

“Well, even if there is, they’re probably not in Lahdah,” Issa said. “Admittedly I pay no attention to current events. But there’s no _kaunk’ev_ fighting here.”

“But Voldemort,” said Harry dumbly. “You said Voldemort is still ruling.”

“Well, yeah.” Issa shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say this. “Who else would be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some extra context on the time depth Harry's dealing with here: do any of y'all remember Byzantium, or the Arab Caliphates? In 1998, a thousand years ago (998) the Holy Roman Empire was still doing it's thing (though it had since been converted to Christianity), and the Arab Caliphates were basically the most powerful and scientificially/mathematically advanced government in Europe/the Middle East/North Africa. Most of Europe was still being completely obscure and the British Isles were in twenty-six kingdoms, including the Kingdom of Alba, which I believe some people try to align with the Arthur Mythos.
> 
> Side note, I can't deal with the academic study of history for too long, but as a lay-historian and worldbuilding fanatic I love history. I therefore have some severe moods about the technomagic of the future and the historical progression that got us here. And a timeline with notes.
> 
> Harry's experience with his glasses is taken directly from my own experiences as a glasses-wearer. Glasses-wearers will know what I'm talking about. Non-glasses-wearers – we don't even feel the things on our face. They're basically extensions of our body. Consequently, we find ourselves moving to push them back up the bridge of our noses even when they're not on our faces. Harry's brain was confused AF by the fact that he could see, but wasn't feeling any frames, and considering the chaos, his subconscious went "don't even try" and he became his usual oblivious self what we all know and love.


	6. Ríz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ríz_ (n) anger of such depth and intensity that it distorts one’s perceptions of reality; rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY take heed I'm posting TWO CHAPTERS AT ONCE! Go back and read chapter 5, _Xut_ , if you haven't!
> 
> We stan King Cobra Nagini in this household. Fantastic Beasts is not and will never be canon. You can pry Nagini-was-hatched-a-snake-and-has-always-been-a-snake from my cold, dead hands.

* * *

  


The coffin was a work of art. The dark and polished teak wood of the body showed barely any grain, with what did appear seeming more of a trick of the light than a true feature of the piece. Adamantium threads ran through it, their pointed edges burnished until the black color became silvery, and these again were dyed a pale golden-bronze. It was a fake weathering, for the coffin had been in the dark for almost a thousand years, and adamantium did not oxidise in sunlight anyway. The wood had not decayed, nor rotted, and was not discolored or warped by water – preservation runes took care of that, set neatly into slots where the adamantium obscured their dull silver glow. It smelled of hickory and pine, perhaps had been bathed in preservation potions as well. There were no join points visible in the corners, and it seemed like nothing more than a single solid block of wood.

The lid of it was heavy, perhaps heavier than it should have been. More adamantium rose through the wood here, almost obscuring the teak beneath its curled fleur-de-lis-like insets framing a skull with a snake emerging from the mouth. The bronzing was more drastic, and the amount of time it must have taken to properly stain adamantium was enough to make the fingers of any metalworker ache in sympathy. The detail inherent to the carving, too, small grooves designed to give the faintest of senses that there were real leaves embedded beneath the metal, was almost unnoticeable at first. But over time, the longer one stared at them, the more the leaves seemed real – the more the skull, though flat in truth, seemed rounded just as any skull would be. The more one stared, the more the snake, its scales keeled and textured to the touch, the only portion stained bright emerald green in contrast with the bronze, seemed liable to spring up with a hiss and gaping fangs.

The Dark Lord Vóldamórt had been staring at the coffin for more than long enough to see these optical illusions, but he did not notice them. His scarlet eyes locked onto the empty eye sockets of the skull, and his fingertips gently traced the leaves around the snake without much thought for why he was doing it. Occasionally the many rings adorning his fingers clinked against the adamantium, and the sound would echo through the silence of gallery in which he stood – rather, in which he leaned against the coffin as if he wished to somehow press it to his ribcage until it was a part of him.

He never moved to look within the coffin. He knew what was inside, and how that knowledge burned – that the person who should have laid inside this coffin was not there, was somewhere gone from his sight and entirely outside of his reach and knowledge. That they could not be protected, could not be kept close and safe and comfortable within the velvet cushioning that lay within the wood and metal. All that, Vóldamórt thought, was bad enough. And yet it was not the worst aspect of this whole debacle.

One of his fingers found a groove between two scales of the snake, and he dug the black-painted nail in, the finger curling awkwardly until the knuckles had bent almost to an angle that looked painful. How he wanted to destroy it. But it was art, and he wished to keep it, at least until its rightful contents were found again.

He forced himself to breathe, and the gnarled finger relaxed until the hand it belonged to had curled into a fist. No, it still was not the worst that this coffin was empty, though it rankled more than he had been rankled in years. It had nothing at all to do with the way that this masterwork piece had finally found its way back into his collection after centuries alone in the ground. He had been stolen from, it was true. Some imprints in the dust within the crypt had indicated small trinkets missing, taken, but Vóldamórt was immortal and at least a millennia old and he was patient. He could wait. He would find what doodads had been taken from him and the thieves would die, or perhaps be resurrected merely to die again, of that he had no doubt.

But there was more that had been taken, for the person who should have been housed safely within the coffin was not there. And no matter how long Vóldamórt stayed here staring with intensity at the skull engraved into the metal of the lid, willing it with all he had to form into a vision of the face that ought to have, that _had to have_ rested below it for centuries, he still could not remember who they were, he couldn’t _fucking_ remember!

The pensieves that might have told him were corrupted, time and neglect disintegrating them into a headsplitting morass of fragmented words and sights and smells too fungible to do anything but land him in bed with a migraine. Who would have ever thought that the contents of a pensieve could decay? Not him, not any runist in all the years since the technomantic revolution. Pensieves lasted, they said, for centuries, for lifetimes. No need to worry about any loss of fidelity. It was almost enough to make him laugh, but if he did, he might laugh so hard he moved on to crying. Vóldamórt chose to slam his fist against the metal instead. A swell of magic sparked from the impact, but it merely flickered over the adamantium like a child’s sparkler.

This person was important. He knew this from the way his heart had skipped beats and stopped in horror when he first saw that the cushioning within lay empty. He knew it from the way his magic hadn’t stopped flinging itself violently from his body until he had calmed himself with henk. He knew it from the way he continued to clench his teeth together so hard that they ached every time his thoughts strayed too far towards the fact that somebody had stolen his _person_.

His person, who he hadn’t even known he had until they were gone, and his useless brain couldn’t remember anything. He couldn’t fucking remember! How could he recognise them, then, if ever he saw them? How could he give his soldiers any information they might need to find them for him? How could he prove to his person that he was himself, that he was the same, that he only wished for them to be safe and back with him?

Vóldamórt did not like mysteries, but everything had suddenly become one.

The Dark Lord leaned back, trying to force the tension from his shoulders, and reached inside his robes for any pen he might have had on him. The one he found was black, set with small fire-opal slivers, but that really wasn’t the point right now. He took a hit, inhaling for longer than his lungs could likely hold, and released it slowly. After a minute or so he still had not relaxed enough, so he took another, and that did it.

“ _Are you done now?_ ” came a low, growling hiss from the foliage that spread throughout the corner and up the wall on the other end of the room.

“ _No,_ ” Vóldamórt hissed back morosely. He didn’t turn to look, but heard the loud _thud_ of his familiar dropping onto the floor from wherever she had clambered up to within the plants. It didn’t bother him – a twelve foot king cobra was rather heavy, after all.

Nakíní slithered up to him, rearing up to nudge her head against his dangling left hand. “ _You’re acting done,_ ” she hissed. “ _You’re just standing there._ ”

“ _I am still consumed with rage, darling,_ ” he replied dully. “ _I’m just… taking a rest._ ”

“ _If you’re resting, can we go lie down again?_ ” she hissed. “ _I want scale scratches._ ”

“ _Darling._ ” He brought the pen back to his lips and took a third hit in self-defense. He did not want to go lie down. The thought of leaving the coffin alone, empty as it was, tugged on his insides in a manner that was most unpleasant.

She bit down on the hem of his robe sleeve and pulled lightly. Vóldamórt glanced at her and narrowed his eyes. “ _Really, darling?_ ” he hissed.

“ _Yesssssss,_ ” she hissed. “ _Come with me._ ”

He sat down instead, leaning back against the wood and metal of the coffin. It was not very pleasant, all told, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “ _We will rest right here or not at all,_ ” he hissed.

She released his sleeve and thrust her head towards him, so that her snout almost touched his nose. Vóldamórt didn’t flinch, nor did his blinking stutter in a way that would have indicated startlement.

“ _If you’re so upset about the box being empty, why don’t you just get inside it?_ ” Nakíní hissed. Her tongue flickered thoughtfully, and she tilted her head to the side. “ _Or! I could get inside it. I can be human shaped if I coil up just right_.”

Vóldamórt would normally have felt the quirk of a smile trying to make its way onto his face at this point during one of Nakíní’s antics. He did not feel anything right now. “ _Even if you made the right shape, it wouldn’t be right, darling,_ ” he hissed. “ _You’re not the right person._ ”

“ _Impossible,_ ” she hissed, bumping her snout against his face. “ _I am always right._ ”

“ _That means something different –_ ”

“ _Open the box! I will do it!_ ”

He reached up and curled a hand around her, gently scratching at the smooth, thick scales that decorated the base of her skull. Her hood folded in even farther than it usually did, and she moved to coil up on his lap, her upper body pressing against his chest. “ _Yesssssssss,_ ” she hissed happily.

Vóldamórt did not feel better until he had taken two more hits, but then his mind was finally able to float pleasantly away from his emotions. The coffin at his back didn’t feel all that uncomfortable anymore, either.

  


* * *

  


_An excerpt from event report AR_14-39:O, titled ‘Summary and Action Plan Regarding Break-in, 3016 April 28’. Recovered from the personal oracle of the Dark Lord Vóldamórt, storage cell G6._

_Author: Alisias Rássælt._

  


`.. All genetic traces were swept despite best efforts of the registry monitors. The boot print recovered from Chamber 2 matches two possible repositories with locations in Ládá and Édiaba-Kleská. Recent sell lists have been requisitioned but wear evident on the sole indicates that the boot was likely acquired some years ago and tracability may be compromised.`

`Dust impressions from the ledges within Chamber 1 total 15 missing items of small size, estimated to measure no more than 60 cubic centimeters each. Detailed tracings of each are attached for shape estimation, but in many cases the shapes are generic, ie. a rounded rectangle.`

`The individual from the coffin left no genetic traces despite probable long residency, as in the remainder of the space. A small bloodstain was lifted from the velvet in the coffin but by the time of examination revealed a lack of usable genetic data with all nucleotide bonds completely deconstructed. The potions reservoir needle similarly showed no usable genetic data despite trace amounts of dried blood. Ley tracing indicates that this deconstruction was recent, likely concurrent with removal from the coffin.`

`Analysis of the indentation left by the body in the pillows indicates an individual of approximately 168 centimeters in height. While body type cannot be explicitly determined, the individual was not obese. Thin shoulders render us unable to accurately comment on probable biological gender. However, the individual is statistically slightly more likely to be a woman or to be nonbinary. If biologically male, the individual is statistically more likely to be young and is possibly unfinished with total growth.`

`There are no signs of a struggle, but given the average awakening time of 3 hours for the Draught of Living Death concentration within the reservoir, this does not indicate that the individual went willingly, or that they were even aware of their removal from the coffin…`

  


* * *

  


Alisias Rássælt, Senior Commander on the Dark Mark and Left Hand of the Dark Lord, was one of the most powerful people in the entire country of B’itá. Some political theorists – though certainly not B’itái ones – might have argued that she was _the_ most powerful individual in the entire country of B’itá, given the snitch-like rarity with which the Dark Lord showed his face or ordered anything particularly specific to be done that did not involve his habit of collecting ancient relics like they were trading cards. It was a sensible enough analysis, from the standpoint of most theories of power. The cities and civilians of B’itá bowed to the whims of their individual governors – the governors, in turn, to the military-technomancy complex that was B’itá’s only cross-city governmental structure. The soldiers and officers and technomantic constructs of that military all, in theory, reported ultimately to the Dark Lord, and would only move on his command. In reality there were many levels of different moving parts, which had gotten quite good at moving on their own while their supreme leader sat somewhere on the Dark Mark and did – whatever it was that he did. In the face of a mostly-absent ruler, one would imagine that the next person down – the Left Hand – might in practice be the most powerful individual in B’itá.

This analysis, however, only worked if one assumed that Alisias cared much for her own advancement over others. Many would have so assumed, but they would be perfectly incorrect. In truth, Alisias Rássælt cared for one thing only when it came to her career, and that single thing was principle.

She did not, for instance, care much for pragmatics when there was an order to be carried out.

“But it will probably wreck the net completely,” the runist in front of her was moaning. Behind him, his two assistants stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, masked faces rendering no sign of whether or not they agreed with him.

“Perhaps,” was all Alisias said. She took in a long, slow breath, willing herself not to snap at the officer. Technically speaking, it was his job to care about the Immobilis nets and the other various pieces of specialized, hard-to-tool equipment that he oversaw. “We have others. Our Lord demanded this report, so we will be thorough. If you need to destroy the net to get the necessary diagnostics, then so be it.”

[`Heartbeat spike,`] whispered her oracle. Alisias watched the officer’s vital signs idly for a moment, and then blinked the window away.

“Did the Dark Lord explicitly say we _had_ to take it apart?” the officer was saying.

She closed her eyes and left them closed for far longer than she could have gotten away with if she hadn’t had her mask on. “I believe the phrase ‘find out as much as you can about how it could have malfunctioned even if you have to tear it into atoms’ is rather indicative, Tiabbyík.”

The officer nodded gloomily. “It might take only a day if we work overtime,” he said.

“Don’t compromise your judgement by not resting appropriately,” Alisias said. “I want this report to be exhaustive and accurate, not rushed.”

“Yes, sir.”

She nodded an acknowledgement before spinning on her heel to march away. They would perform, or they would not – it was no bother to her if they did not, for it was quite rightfully their own nerves that would feel the consequences. She had faith in them, though.

She had only gotten halfway to the bridge before her oracle buzzed with an incoming floo. [`Ládá`,] whispered the snake-like construct. [`45eb22q9-Gov.`]

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered.

The Left Hand ducked into a side room, willing it to be something useful, and it quite helpfully resolved itself into a private floo booth. The oracle uncoiled from her upper arm and reared up, emitting a small stream of lights that quickly resolved into the image of the current Governor of Ládá. Alisias gave the illusogram a once-over. Swéta T’én looked just as self-important as always, her bright blue, iridescent robes and intricately braided, metal-cuffed hair rendering her in the image of some kind of tropical bird.

“Sir Rássælt,” T’én said, sketching out a bow so shallow that it barely even deserved the name. “Will you kindly answer my questions this time?”

There was a pause while they stared at one another, painted face to bone-white skull mask.

“No questions?” Alisias said shortly. “If you have none then I must leave. Good day – ”

“How can you be our Lord’s Left Hand if your memory is this short?” T’én snapped. “For magic’s sake!”

“I have answered all questions you have previously demanded that I answer,” Alisias snapped right back. “If you wish to ask them again, my answers remain the same. Stop wasting my time, Governor T’én.”

“That is completely unsatisfactory!” cried the woman in the illusogram. “This isn’t some provincial inland city you’ve locked down! This is Ládá! I am responsible for our nation’s capital and we have double the apparition traffic of even a major city like Píri or Wástá! Sir Rássælt, please try to imagine the absolute chaos that this is going to create in the industrial chain.”

“That traffic, Miss T’én,” said Alisias, “is indeed going to get backed up. And your job as the Governor is to ensure that it does not back up into some unfortunate location. _That is all._ ”

“But surely there’s a reason for this lockdown?” T’én said desperately. “I have no ETA, or any way that we could help. If there is anything I can do to make this move along – ”

“The soldiers stationed about your city and your offices will already be moving it along,” Alisias said. “Do your job and let them do theirs, and do not bother them. Is this understood?”

“I hardly think that’s fair,” T’én muttered. Her black eyes narrowed, and Alisias frowned beneath her mask.

“Our Lord’s orders do not need to be fair,” Alisias said. “Are you questioning this, Miss T’én?”

A hand flew to T’én’s chest. “Never,” she said. “But I can hardly operate if I don’t even know the reasoning behind the orders. Surely our Lord would understand that?”

“The reasoning is classified,” said Alisias.

“Classified? _Classified?_ What the hell do you mean classified? I have cleara – ”

“Good _day_ ,” Alisias interrupted her, and ended the floo. Another one immediately buzzed in, but she muted it the moment she saw it was from the same number.

Governors. Really, she thought as she stepped back out into the hall and made for the bridge, they ought to be replaced more often. Maybe it would prevent some of the more successful ones from getting uppity the way T’én had gotten. By the time she reached the bridge she had accumulated five more unanswered floos from the same number. Then, for a stretch of ten minutes, there was blessed stillness as she gave orders for the ship to change its scanning patterns from checker to fractal. Perhaps now she would be able to –

Her oracle buzzed, and the floo bubble flickered in the corner of her vision. A quiet [`Ládá 45eb22q9-Gov`] susurrated across her thoughts.

She set all Governors to screen for twenty-four hours and threw a note into the draft of her next report to her Lord, due four hours hence.

  


* * *

  


_Event report AR_14-39:10, titled ‘Morning Update, 3016 May 2’. Recovered from the personal oracle of the Dark Lord Vóldamórt, storage cell G6._

_Author: Alisias Rássælt._

  


`Analysis of the recovered boot print remains inconclusive. Diviners cannot indicate more than 21% confidence as to the number of years for which the boot received usage wear regardless of methodology used. DE:D9889 was struck with a debilitating migraine while attempting astral projection and had to be removed to medical for soul tether reconstruction. Acquisition records from the relevant repositories have been subpoenad from the previous year regardless and a persons-of-interest warrant will be made.`

`All non-destructive diagnostics on the Immobilis net reveal no sign of tampering or malfunction. An atomic dissection has begun and is expected to produce a report within 2 days.`

`The following incident may or may not be related to current events. Unknown user recorded only as “H” accessed a lockdown watcher three times in quick succession on May 1 at 21:27:05, 21:29:58, and 21:46:37. No other records of “H” exist but they have credentials sufficient for the watchers to allow access to Ládá despite the lockdown. Recon dispatched to investigate located a shredded rock and no other sign of activity. Investigation into “H” is ongoing and a more thorough report may be compiled upon request.`

`Governor T’én continues to express dissatisfaction with the existance of the lockdown and with its classified nature. LH received a floo on May 2 09:20:41 which was ultimately unproductive and a waste of valuable time. Six more floos were received in quick succession and ignored in favor of productivity until LH set all Gov-level floos to screen until May 3 09:44:42. Screening remains in effect at the moment of this submission.`

  


* * *

  


Often, Vóldamórt felt as though he watched events without appreciable emotional reaction. Things happened, reports were submitted and read, laws were stamped, and traitors were tortured (and perhaps interrogated) all without much necessary input from his heart, save the continued pumping of blood. His face would settle easily into an impassive, aloof look that he had once actively cultivated (he remembered this), but that he now needed to work at to remove for any period of time. Life was often simple for an established Dark Lord such as himself (not that he had any peers to compare himself to), and he often found himself incredibly, painfully bored (except for that 50% of the year which he desperately looked forward to).

It was acceptable, and he was used to it by now. (At least he should have been.)

Recently, however, he was wondering if perhaps he hadn’t had it all wrong. Perhaps having no emotions as your basic state of being was preferable to the rage induced by emotions such as frustration at lost opportunities and incompetence.

Well, he thought, as he finished tying back his hair into a short braid, at least he would get off the ship for a time.

“ _Why are you putting your outside scales on?_ ” Nakíní hissed from the bed.

“ _I have to go and scare a stupid human,_ ” he hissed.

“ _That sounds like fun._ ”

He smiled despite himself. There was the exception he had been looking for – the only thing that his heart felt worthy of more than another basic pump of blood.

“ _I’ll be back soon enough, darling,_ ” he told her, adjusting the two rings on his fingers that held _Ávadas_ trapped within their green gems. “ _Do you want to go to the blood rooms when I return so you can scare your own?_ ”

“ _Yessssssss,_ ” she hissed happily. “ _This is good. We will do that._ ”

He apparated directly into the Governer’s office from his quarters, unwilling to go through the tedious process of assembling a couple of security experts into an escort. He didn’t technically need an escort, anyway – it was always more for show, and because people had expectations. He was immortal, and even without much conquering in the last five centuries, he could still fight. Why should he need bodyguards?

So it was that the Dark Lord appeared, alone and without much fanfare, in the Ládá Governor’s suite office. He had apparated into the file room, as he knew the location of that one best, and Vóldamórt found himself facing the floor-to-ceiling windows which covered one side of the room and looked out upon Ládá’s major top-level park, Tés. He looked behind him – nobody else was in the room, but he could hear the voices of the Governor and another unknown individual from around the bend, out of sight.

Based on their discussion, they did not know he was here, so the Dark Lord took a moment to look out the window. Suspended walkways skirted the building and the park, the foot traffic often obscured by trellis gardens, but in a few spots the mass of civilians shone through. Vóldamórt watched them move about through the closest such opening, wondering how they would feel if they had been able to see into the reflective windows to recognize that their Lord stood not but meters from them. He suspected that, had he been in an altered frame of mind, he would have found this juxtaposition to be hilarious.

As it was, he merely felt dully bored with it all, and so he moved away from the window. There was a large desk in this room, and on its surface he noticed a round paperweight with the colors and likeness of an ancient world globe. He plucked it up, waving away the anti-theft enchantment without effort, and held it against the light to examine it. The translucency informed him that there was real ancient parchment preserved within, and so he tucked it into his robe. If T’én proved suitably tractable and apologetic, perhaps he would allow her to have it back.

He strode out of the file room and down the short hallway into the reception office. A nervous-looking clerk with short cropped hair was in the middle of explaining something related to air traffic to the Governor, who looked simultaneously bored by and disgusted with the information she was receiving. Vóldamórt halted in the doorway and crossed his arms, waiting.

He did not have to wait long at all. The clerk must have noticed movement, and after a second of wide-eyed staring, they let out a strangled noise and dropped to the floor in a single motion. T’én, for her part, stuttered. “M-my Lord!” she finally got out, descending quickly to a kneel.

Vóldamórt titled his head back, the better to look down his nose at the scene before him as he took a few deliberate steps into the room. “Bow fully,” he snapped at T’én, and to her credit, she immediately pressed her forehead to the carpet.

His scarlet eyes found the clerk, who was failing to suppress small shudders. “Who are you?” he asked.

“St – Stasláva B’æsá, my L-Lord,” the clerk stuttered.

“I have no need of you. Get out.”

Stasláva B’æsá got out, scrambling quite quickly. Vóldamórt was almost impressed, but that would have been asking too much of his emotions, apparently.

He turned on T’én instead.

“Governor,” he began. “Dare I ask why my Left Hand found herself so distracted by your floos that she felt the need to screen everything from you for twenty-four hours hence, simply in order to do her job?”

T’én began to babble. “My Lord, please understand,” she said, “I asked sir Rássælt earlier this week for more information about the lockdown and did not receive an adequate reply, so I simply followed up – and then she _hung up_ on me – ”

“I don’t care. I know for a fact you have been given all the information you are cleared to know. There is no reason for you to keep making a nuisance of yourself.”

“My Lord – ”

“ _What?_ ”

“R – respectfully, my Lord, _very_ respectfully, I was under the impression that I had security clearance and I would very much like to do anything I can to aid you and minimize this disruption to all of our lives – ”

“ _K’usyó_ ,” Vóldamórt snapped, and flicked his wrist.

He held the curse for about a minute while T’én writhed and screamed on the floor, going through her record in his mind’s eye while his oracle kept tabs on the time for him. She was normally competent, he decided, despite her somewhat unfortunate propensity for ostentation, and replacing a Governor was always something of a hassle. He would let her live on a trial basis – perhaps, if her conduct did not improve, but he was in a good mood, he would only order her demoted. Oh, but that might be considerably crueler than an _Ávada_ in T’én’s mind, he realized. Imagine, the horror of having to live through demotion.

His oracle warmed against his chest from its pocket in his robes, and he lifted the curse. T’én fell to the floor in a mess of clothing and did not move except to whimper.

“I expect to hear nothing more from you that sounds anything like complaining,” he murmured, allowing a Parseltongue-esque hissing to overlay his words. “You may live. The lockdown will be lifted whenever it will be lifted. I do not expect you to bother Alisias about it again, in any way. Am I understood?”

There was a muffled noise.

“Am I _understood_ , Governor T’én?” he said, louder.

“per – perfectly, m-my Lord,” she choked out.

“Very good. As you were.”

He apparated back to his bedroom, and found Nakíní sprawled across his pillows.

“ _You were gone for so long,_ ” she complained. Vóldamórt checked the time – it had been only about ten minutes.

“ _Whatever you say, darling,_ ” he hissed, moving to stroke her scales. “ _I’m back now. Do you still want to go to the blood rooms?_ ”

“ _Yesssssss. Blood rooms, now._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think "Black Comedy Dictatorship" is my favorite tag I've ever had to put on anything.
> 
> Collectively the fandom seems to have decided that book Harry is "tall", 5'9 or something like that. (I'm American. The conversion tool tells me that's about 175 cm.) I call bullshit on this based on the canonical childhood starvation via Dursley abuse, which we can be pretty sure lasted from age 2 to age 11, but probably also lasted into each summer. There's no way this boy does not have stunted growth from malnutrition. Maybe he's genetically _supposed_ to be 5'9/175cm with proper nutrition, but he in no way got that. This also contributes to the lack of musculature development in his shoulders. He's a skinny, scrawny, slightly gender-ambiguous-looking 18 year old at the moment.
> 
> I could also talk about my reasoning behind V's personality and psychology for ages, because I've practically written a dissertation about this man, but I think that'd be too much. Just know that there's, as always, method to my madness.


	7. Fekt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _fekt_ (n) an established ocurrence, generally of historical nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH my goshhhhhh. Listen guys. I live in America and New England has been dying under heat waves for the last couple of weeks. My apartment isn't air-conditioned. The heat absolutely drained all my energy and high level thoughts. I've been lying on my bed directly under a fan on high and watching Netflix on all my off-hours.
> 
> But rejoice! I started going to sit in Starbucks so I could write. So now I have this done. I'm pleased to introduce you to the part of the story where the chapters have a mix of Harry and V perspectives. A fair amount of exposition here, but hopefully it's interesting because it answers questions (and raises yet more... I hope).

  


* * *

  


_“But Voldemort,” said Harry dumbly. “You said Voldemort is still ruling.”_

_“Well, yeah.” Issa shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say this. “Who else would be?”_

  


* * *

  


Voldemort ruled Britain.

_Unchallenged._

Harry could not wrap his head around it, though he tried with all his might. There had been purebloods in Harry’s time who had wanted Voldemort in charge, he thought. They hadn’t known what they were getting, a monster in the form of a man, but they had wanted it. Harry supposed he might, in a very vague and roundabout sort of way, understand how a rich pureblood like Lucius Malfoy could have found putting Voldemort in charge to be an excellent idea. But surely, the moment they had actually gotten to that point, even Lucius Malfoy would have realized that putting Voldemort in charge was decidedly not something that anybody wanted? Harry wasn’t certain where he had been taken when he had been caught, or which dungeons he had been kept in, but he suspected that they had been in Malfoy Manor, as that was where Voldemort had been hanging out for most of Harry’s fifth and sixth years at Hogwarts. He remembered glancing at Draco from the floor while the snatcher crowed and demanded his money (and got cruciated for it – why couldn’t people see what Voldemort was?) The blonde had not looked elated for his ‘Lord’, or even aloof and uncaring about Harry’s fate.

No. He’d looked devastated and terrified, and he’d looked like he hadn’t been sleeping well.

At least Draco Malfoy had realized that Voldemort didn’t deserve to be in charge, couldn’t be left in charge by any definition of reasonable morality. Harry wondered how soon it had been before all those pureblood Death Eaters had realized the mistake they’d made, or whether they had even realized it. Maybe Voldemort had turned around and stung them like a scorpion before they’d ever made the connection.

But weren’t people still dying? Weren’t they being tortured and hurt and murdered? How could people just be standing by?

“But,” he tried. His voice was smaller than he liked it to be – soft and hopeless sounding. “But why?”

What was it all for, Harry thought desperately. All the pain and the loss and the blood and the dying and the fighting – if it wasn’t to defeat Voldemort, to protect people from him, if even that hadn’t done the job, then – then –

Then what, he thought with despair, had been the point?

  


* * *

  


They didn’t talk much more, though Mahi kept opening her mouth as if she wanted to say something. She never did – Harry preferred this. He didn’t want to try to talk right now. He didn’t want to answer any of their questions. Instead, he and the girls sat quietly. Issa played with the strange bracelet-like device, prodding her fingers through the glowing sheets of light that hung in the air around where it hung in the air. Harry might have been enraptured, but instead, he felt distracted and hopeless, and was unwilling to even pay it that much mind.

Voldemort was in charge.

Voldemort was _still_ in charge.

Cedric had died, and Sirius had died, and Dumbledore had died, and Mad-Eye had died, and even the people who had been alive – Remus and Tonks and Hermione and Ron and Fred and George and Ginny – they’d all died. But Voldemort was still here.

He felt numb, and it took him a moment to realize that Daumi was trying to coax him upright. He went with her, hoping that maybe he’d wake up if he did. Nothing was really real, was it? Nothing had really been real since Voldemort had drugged him and carried him away to be buried in the ground in a mockery of a funeral. He was having a dream. He wanted to wake up.

She showed him to a room full of books and trinkets and hung with tapestries that Harry thought must have been mass-produced. There was a desk, and a cushion on the windowsill – Daumi directed him to the windowsill, and pushed him gently down onto the pillows. The window showed a thin alleyway, almost too thin for a human to maneuver comfortably in. It was mossy and overgrown – a small stream burbled pleasantly in a divot in the middle of the space. Harry watched, for lack of anything better to look at or think about, as a few dead leaves swirled down it.

“Do you want food?” Daumi asked.

“m’not hungry,” Harry muttered.

He wasn’t – he only felt sick. How many people had died for Voldemort’s ambitions? How many people had had their happiness whisked away, never to return? And how could his new friends – because they had to be friends now, Harry thought, or friends were nothing real – how could they just sit there and shrug about it? They hadn’t even grimaced, so – had they just accepted it? And he, useless alleged Savior that he was, he had done nothing for them –

Daumi came back with sandwiches. Harry hadn’t even noticed her leave, and though he’d said he wasn’t hungry, he picked at one. He didn’t want to think, anyway.

“You said you knew my super-great-aunt,” Daumi said after a while. She was sitting in the desk chair, but had turned it to face him.

“Yeah,” Harry said dully.

“And you said my ancester’s family was like your family,” she went on. A loose piece of lettuce floated to a halt just before it could hit the floor, and popped back up onto her plate. “Who were they? What were they like?”

“Well,” Harry said thickly. The sounds almost caught in his throat, and he nearly told her he couldn’t talk right now. But she deserved to know. He was the only person who could tell her. “I – I only knew the one family. I dunno if they had cousins,” he said.

Daumi listened raptly.

“There’s – there was Ginny,” he said slowly. “That’s your aunt. And her older brother was Ron – he – he was my first friend. We met when we were eleven and we shared a spot on the Hogwarts Express, and I gave him my sweets and he gave me his corned beef sandwich.”

Had he? They had, Harry thought with sudden insight. He’d almost forgotten about sharing food with Ron. But it was so important that they had – that had been the moment Harry had really felt he’d done it right. He could have magic. He could go to Hogwarts. He could talk to people his age and not be chased away.

“And Ron and Ginny had two other older brothers,” he continued. “Fred and George. They were twins. They’re – you and Samenta remind me of them a lot. They liked to play pranks.” They sent me a toilet seat once, he didn’t say. It was really funny. Ron’s afraid of spiders and I dated Ginny when I was sixteen. I thought I was going to marry her if I lived through Voldemort, at first, before the Ministry fell. I thought I was going to –

He hadn’t burst into tears in a very long time. It felt odd.

Ron was dead, he thought with anguish. Ginny was dead. Fred and George were dead. He’d never see any of them again. They’d never see a world free from Voldemort because it didn’t exist, and what would they have thought when Harry vanished? What had they thought had happened to him? Had they blamed him for abandoning them – because he had abandoned them, Harry thought with a bolt of quivering nausea. He’d been stupid and careless and he’d done all of them a disservice that he could never, ever make up.

If only he’d never been woken up, if only he’d stayed innocently insensate and unable to know –

“Harry? Harry? It’s okay,” he heard Daumi saying. An arm was around his shoulders. “W-we don’t have to talk about it. It’s okay.”

He was grateful that she didn’t want to make him speak any more, but it still wasn’t okay.

Daumi took his barely picked-over sandwich from him and tossed it lightly onto the desk. It must have levitated – there was no other way for it to land so gently, or for that toss to carry it that far across the room. Harry wrapped his arms around himself and stared out at the little alley stream, trying his best not to think about anything. Daumi stayed with him, arm still wrapped loosely around his shoulder.

The light changed and Harry managed to stop sobbing. The light changed further and Samenta gently pushed the door in, peeking around the carved wood with trepidation. “Hey?” she murmured.

“Hey,” Daumi replied. Harry didn’t say anything, but looked up in lieu of acknowledgement.

“Mahi and Issa went home,” Samenta said. She regarded Harry’s cold sandwich for a moment before apparently thinking better of it. Instead she pulled out the desk chair and plopped down.

“Mahi’s not…”

“She’s fine,” Samenta said. Fingers fiddled with her robe hem. “Issa probably went to her aunt’s because you know how her aunt is.”

Harry wondered how her aunt was. As bad as Aunt Petunia? He hoped not.

“What’s it like out there?” Daumi was saying.

“Weird,” Samenta said.

They looked at each other silently for a moment, and Harry’s heart broke a little.

“It’s just weird,” Samenta said finally. “It’s a lockdown, right? But nobody knows why, not officially. And we looked at the – ” nonsense “ – there’s no warrants for anyone like Harry, no – ” nonsense “ – no – ” nonsense “ – nothing!”

“What, there’s nothing at all?” Daumi said suspiciously.

“Just a general order to report all slightly suspicious people,” Samenta said. “Harry?”

It took Harry a moment to work out his words. “Yeah?” he croaked.

“You have a huge accent and you’re still not talking exactly right,” she said. “If you go outside you’ll definitely get reported for being suspicious.”

“Right,” Harry said vaguely. It wasn’t too different than living safehouse to safehouse, after all. “That’s fine. I’ll just stay inside.” Next to him he felt Daumi stiffen and then relax with a long sigh. Had they expected him to argue? Or just worried that he would, and now felt relieved not to have to deal with it? It didn’t really matter, though.

He followed them into the kitchen to watch them cook dinner, because he didn’t want to be alone.

  


* * *

  


The pulled out couch should have been more comfortable than an armchair. He was able to lie down fully, and hide his body underneath a blanket that the twins had rummaged up for him out of a suspiciously small closet. It should have been much better than sleeping curled in an armchair with his legs pulled up and his head resting haphazardly against the back of the chair.

Yet it wasn’t better. Harry twisted and turned uneasily beneath the covers, and his gut twisted and turned uneasily within him as he did so. He wanted to fall asleep so that he could stop thinking about everyone that he had failed, and the impossible obstacle that Voldemort had become since he had last laid eyes on the man.

It had barely been a week ago that he had been force-fed a potion, Harry thought numbly. He’d woken up – they’d run, the girls and him – they’d traveled for three, four days until they got to London. Then a fifth day for Harry to realize that everything he’d ever dreamed about was totally impossible.

How could it have been a thousand years? He could imagine Voldemort so clearly, as if it had happened yesterday. As if it had only happened five days ago, like it was supposed to. How could a thousand years have passed when his mind couldn’t remember them at all? He’d been asleep, it had been nothing. 1998, and then – the surreal dreamscape that was the future. It was like the last reality Harry had even seen had been Voldemort’s red eyes gleaming at him in fascination, that the last thing he’d felt had been the Dark Lord’s arms around him and that crooning hiss of –

Nope.

Harry sat upright so quickly that he hoped he hadn’t made his glasses fall off. Then, of course, he remembered that he didn’t have those anymore either, and his stomach lurched. He pressed his feet onto the cool wooden floor where the carpet ended at the couch, and pressed his fists into his eyes. It was still dark. He’d gotten absolutely no sleep, and he didn’t know how long it was until dawn. Maybe the twins had a clock?

He couldn’t see any likely candidate, but there was a little plate set into the wall that reminded him of the on-off plate in the shower stall. Maybe that was a light. He hesitantly reached for it. Hopefully it would be a light (a dim one, please), he thought as he tapped it.

A dim fairy light sputtered on in the corners of the ceiling, coming from no conceivable, tangible thing. Harry took his hand away immediately, unwilling to mess with it further. Thankfully the light stayed on, warm and orange.

Maybe he could read. Books had never been his activity of choice the way that they had been Hermione’s, but living in safehouses and on the run for over a year had certainly been enough to teach even Ron Weasley the value of having a book at hand. Despite the wording of the phrase ‘on the run’, Harry had found that the actual running tended to be surprisingly far between periods of interminable boredom. You stayed locked up in one place for a while, and maybe skulked around outside at night every so often. It wasn’t at all glamorous like the muggle movies tried to make it out to be.

He sat back down on the couch, and his hand found one of the stacks of books that was in easy reach. He grabbed the top one, thick but small, and paged it open.

_Mi mix het æsukit,_ he read. _“Nátiŋ iandariav’o dís, Zéska,” mi ætóltá. “Yamahemezátit.”_

What the fuck?

Harry stared down at the book and tried lucklessly to decipher the letters. They didn’t make any sense, he thought. It didn’t look like English at all. What were those lines above some of the vowels? What was that strange N?

He read another line. Maybe it would resolve itself, he thought, but there was no such luck. _“Áma, iwas mi æswít,” isetá, mix azdæs iankórá. “Læk Zírat ilukt,”_ said the next paragraph.

A sudden and vicious stab of frustration pierced his stomach. Of course they didn’t write properly either, Harry thought. Of course he was going to have to learn how to read all over again.

He shut the book and dropped it furiously out of sight. There was nothing else to do, so he laid back down on the couch-bed, feeling pointless and more worthless than even the Dursleys could sometimes make him feel.

Once, he thought, he had been ready to die to kill Voldemort. Maybe he could still do that. Maybe it would be possible for him to actually try to fix what had gone wrong when he had acted so selfish as to get himself caught before the job of getting rid of all the horcruxes was done. Better late than never, after all – right? And if only he could kill Voldemort before the Dark Lord got to Harry, then dying would be alright. It wasn’t as if he, Harry, had anything left to live for. He’d wished to survive the war only because he wanted to live in a peaceful world with his friends. He hadn’t always thought he would survive – it had looked more and more unlikely with every day that passed and allowed Voldemort more time to dig his clawed fingers into the wizarding world – but he had hoped for it.

All his friends were dead now. There didn’t seem to be much point.

He lay there, musing on the difficulties of sacrificing himself to kill Voldemort. He’d need to do research. He’d need to try and figure out how to get around this strange new landscape. He’d need a way to get close to Voldemort, some kind of – he didn’t know what. Harry had never been very good at planning. Everything usually seemed so far away that planning seemed unnecessary, and when the unnecessary became urgent, well, there was never time to plan.

He was still thinking this over, almost dozing, when the door burst open. Harry shot upright, but his body felt leaden – perhaps he had almost been asleep – and his limbs had somehow gotten all tangled up in the blanket. White skull masks darted into the room, their robes so dark that all Harry could really see were the pale faces floating in the air. He tried to shriek, but failed to make a sound. Instead he only propelled himself off the bed and onto the floor, still tangled up, and in the doorway stood a tall, dark figure with bright red eyes.

“Voldemort,” Harry whispered in horror.

Voldemort stepped into the faint light cast into the window by the outside world. His face was just the same as it had been, the strangely human visage of Tom Riddle laughably inappropriate for a man like Voldemort. As even more Death Eaters streamed into the room, Voldemort smiled down at him.

“ _Oh, Harry,_ ” he hissed gently. “ _Trying to escape? We can’t have that, now, can we?_ ”

He heard the sound of people screaming, and a flash of green light. It had come from Samenta and Daumi’s room. “No,” Harry choked out. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t seem to yell above a whisper. They were dead, because of him – they’d helped him and they were dead –

“ _You belong in the ground, Harry,_ ” Voldemort hissed as he tilted Harry’s head up. A vial of black liquid, unstoppered, dangled above him. “ _Do try to stay there this time._ ”

“ _No,_ ” Harry hissed in panic. His mouth was opening for all he screamed at it to stop, and he tasted the lingering herbs of the Draught on his tongue. Would it be the 4000s when he woke up – would he ever wake up at all?

“ _No, no,_” he wheezed. “ _Not again! No!_”

“Harry?” cried a voice. It sounded like one of the twins. “Harry!”

A hand shook his shoulder. Harry shot up, near to retching, and frantically spat the potion in his mouth out onto the floor.

“ _Give me,_ ” he gasped. “ _Bezoar. No, that’s poisons, fuck, how do you make somebody throw up?!_ ”

A pair of hands grabbed him by the face. “Harry?” said a voice – he thought it might have been Daumi. “Harry, it’s okay. You’re in our house, it’s okay.”

The panic faded from Harry’s eyes. He saw the door, unbroken into, and realized it had been a dream.

  


* * *

  


It was, ostensibly, night time. Rather, it was 3:00, or somewhere thereabouts, insofar as the Ládá time zone was concerned. The Mark followed Ládá time even when it wasn’t entirely practical to do so, more for the sake of maintaining a regular shift schedule for the soldiers than for any other reason.

Vóldamórt did not follow any shift schedule, though, and he did not need to pay much attention to the time, either. He knew that he was not helping the issue by leaving the viewport in his bedroom open to the sun, which peeked bright and round over the distant curve of the planet in total disregard of human time zones. The sun never stopped burning, after all, and the light it cast through the solarized glass made everything seem more like late-afternoon.

3:18, apparently. He pushed his oracle to the side, leaving it to float gracelessly towards his bedside table, and twisted into a position that was slightly more comfortably cocooned in blankets than he had been. Nakíní made a grumbling noise, but did not stir except to curl a little closer around his waist. The canopy curtains blocked the sunlight from getting directly in his eyes, but they did little else.

He should be doing more, he thought, though he did not move to get up. He should be looking again at the actual reports that the forensics team had written up after analysing the sacked crypt. He should be trying to find any sign of a lone clue that would lead him some amount closer to finding his person, and yet he was just lying here, pretending to have a proper sleep cycle when he could admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that he didn’t have anything of the sort.

It had been five days. Five days, and no progress whatsoever. Nobody had entered or left Ládá since the moment Vóldamórt had discovered the depth of the crime that had been committed against him –

Well. Nobody but ‘H’.

Vóldamórt considered sitting up. But that would dislodge Nakíní, and so instead he flicked a finger and his oracle floated back over and slotted into his waiting hand. He paged it open, deleting some out-dated notes with a thought, until he found the report that Alisias had sent him yesterday at noon. He couldn’t remember giving anyone such a particularly high and sweeping clearance level, but then again, memory didn’t mean much when it came to his person.

Maybe that was his person. The mysterious ‘H’, whoever they were.

He allowed himself to think about that for a moment.

Suppose ‘H’ was his person. Why so many access moments? Was his person helping the thieves back into the city? Were there truly that many of them that the size of the group would warrant three whole touches? Or was his person forced into it, unwilling to help them, but eventually given no choice?

His fingers clenched into the bedsheets at the thought. If that was the case then the thieves would beg for death for even longer than he had been planning. He would make an example of them so fiercely that their ancestors would feel it from their graves.

But if ‘H’ was his person, then his person was in Ládá, now. No more desolate and unpopulated wilderness where the only company had likely been their captors, but a city full of civilians and soldiers, all of whom were looking for somebody strange. Which meant, perhaps, that his person was only one burst door away from racing into the streets and finding a soldier who would eventually be able to reunite them. After all, a person so important that Vóldamórt would have remembered their importance, and protected them so thoroughly, was surely somebody intelligent and resourceful enough to be worth knowing in the first place.

It wasn’t a perfect solution, but Vóldamórt felt warm as he imagined it. Perhaps he would have better news at some point in the next few days.

  


* * *

  


He was never going to go near Voldemort again. The risk of ending up comatose was too great.

Harry forced himself to put away his feverish late-night imaginings, and focused instead on telling the twins about the 1990s. A numbness stole over him the longer he talked. He didn’t burst into tears again, but neither did he feel much of anything. It didn’t feel real to say that everyone he knew was dead. He felt the way he had felt the day after Hagrid had delived his Hogwarts letter, the first time he had ever been in Diagon Alley. He remembered being determined not to question it, to enjoy every moment of the strange madness that had taken over him, in preparation for the inevitable heartbreak of it being unreal.

It hadn’t been unreal then, after all. But Harry felt that this time it must truly be unreal. It was one thing to live the first eleven years of your life with strange occurrences like blue hair and vanishing glass and talking snakes, until finally an explanation was given that seemed unreal but wasn’t. It was entirely another to live the first eighteen years of your life with no indication that you would ever see a year so far in the future as 3016.

So. Not really real.

Samenta and Daumi were pretty nice hosts for not being real, though. Samenta put up with his unfamiliar fumbling with the trappings of a 3016 kitchen enough to be able to teach him how everything, basically, worked. Harry could still barely use anything that required more effort than simply a tap to turn it on or off – whatever a _lee_ was, it was in the kitchen as well as the bathroom. No matter how much he stared at the empty space where this unknowable thing apparently was, he couldn’t grasp what it was supposed to be. None of Samenta and Daumi’s attempts at explanation made any sense to him. They didn’t seem to be able to get more granular than abstract concepts made of words that Harry couldn’t trace to real English words, and made of ideas that Harry couldn’t grasp when they tried to drop all the specialized words.

Whatever a _vasp_ was, Harry never wanted to hear about it again.

At least one good thing arose from the rigmarole, which was a Daumi who was determined to teach Harry how to read. She wrote out the alphabet for him, and it was mostly in the order Harry remembered, though some letters were missing – C and G stood out the most. Then there were those vowels with the lines over them, and the strange N with the tail, and a number of letters with apostrophes after them that Daumi insisted were different from their non-apostrophed comrades, but which didn’t sound any different when she said them aloud to him.

He told her so, and she told him that maybe he thought that because he hadn’t been saying them right the whole time he’d been able to speak to them. The thought reminded Harry of the unknowable _lees_ and _vasps_ , and he quickly decided to not bother with those for now. Daumi grumbled a bit about this, but let him stop trying to produce the apparently different sounds. Instead, they went to dig through the closet, which was far bigger on the inside than it should have been, to find old children’s books that had been read to the twins when they were little.

Harry tried not to feel resentful about the fact that they were books for children. Objectively, it made sense – there would be less to read, and there were pictures to help him figure it out without asking for help if he was stuck.

Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad, he thought, as Daumi finally managed to heave a box of – tablets? – off of a high shelf near the back. It wasn’t like he’d been read children’s books when he was actually a child. Maybe he should think of it as catching up on experiences he hadn’t been able to have.

Each tablet turned out to be less like a tablet, and more like a strangely folded, thick paper that only ever flipped one way – forwards one story-page, or backwards one story-page. Harry couldn’t work out the geometry of it, so he quickly stopped trying, and focused only on looking at the pictures on the covers. He passed over the few that had any sign of Death Eaters or the Dark Mark drawn into the scenery of their covers – not all of them, but more than he would have liked – and ended up picking one that displayed a tiny, dark-skinned girl who reminded him of Hermione. The girl was wearing a bright red and yellow dress, and was running through a hallway after a sort of flying robot.

Daumi sat nearby in case he needed help. Harry resolved to ask her as few questions as possible, but that immediately proved impossible. It wasn’t just that sentences were put together with the verb at the end – everything worked differently now, and apparently, while Harry had been putting together his own idea about how to talk to the girls, they had been putting together their own ideas about how to talk to _him_ , and had adjusted their own speech so he could understand them better.

In the end, he had to sit back and let Daumi read it to him while he looked over her shoulder intently, trying to follow as best he could. In the future, it seemed, they sometimes just used single words as sentences, and they would write the phrase ‘in the’ running together into its noun. Harry found this more confusing than anything else, and afterwards, he still wasn’t sure how everything fit together, but he could tell what the story was about. The girl’s name was spelled _Ivi_ , but sounded more like _Ihvih_ , and her dad wouldn’t allow her to go to her friend’s party until she found her missing _óralk_ – which was one of the same weird metal printers that the girls had been printing the smoke-parchments from while they traveled, although the one in the pictures looked different.

“Why are oralks so important?” Harry asked, after the book had been closed for a moment.

She frowned, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “They’re… well, they do a lot of things that make your life easier, and everyone has to have one. The government gives them out when you verify a kid’s birth certificate.”

Harry cast a wary glance at the blinking piece of metal wrapped around Daumi’s bun. It looked innocuous for now, but… “The government gives them out?” he repeated. “You mean, as in Voldemort does?”

“Not personally,” Daumi snorted. “I don’t think he’s ever on the ground.”

“He’s what?” Harry repeated dumbly. The horrifying memory of Voldemort flying through the air in a cloud of black smoke pressed itself on him. “Where else could he be? He has to eat at some point, right?”

Daumi blinked. “Well, I’d assume so,” she said slowly. “He’s in the – he lives on the Dark Mark. Not what you’ve been calling a Dark Mark,” she said quickly, pre-empting Harry’s consternation. “Actually, here.” She rummaged around in the box and pulled out one of the books Harry had discarded earlier, for the crime of displaying the facade of a stern-looking building covered with ivy and with a few Death Eaters standing around outside of it, and for a banner with the Dark Mark hanging above the entrance.

The disgust must have shown on his face, because Daumi sighed. “It’s just a history book for kids,” she said. “Everyone knows this stuff, so really, so should you.”

Harry grumbled, but allowed her to start reading it to him. At least the pictures were amusing. Voldemort was depicted as a figure cloaked entirely in black, complete with gloves and a deep cowl that somehow always managed to either fall just so that it obscured his face, or to cast it into shadow. He couldn’t hold back a snicker at the first sight of it, and Daumi gave him a strange look.

“This,” he explained, pointing to the image of Voldemort in a room that looked something like a fanciful potions lab. “It’s almost exactly like the old wanted posters from the 1970s that didn’t know anything about him. Does he not allow his face to be shown even now?”

“… I don’t know?” Daumi said. “Some – ” the word that may or may not have been ‘Death Eaters’ “ – might know what he looks like, if they work directly for him. But most – ” something “ – don’t.”

“You don’t know what he looks like?”

“No.”

Harry looked at the pictures again with this in mind. “Huh.”

When he looked up, Daumi was squinting at him. “If that’s how they were drawing him even in the past, why is it funny?”

Harry shrugged. “I mean, maybe it’s funny because I know what he looks like, but he’d still absolutely wear something like that. He’s a dramatic fuck.”

“You what.” But Harry didn’t get a chance to explain himself, because Daumi shook her head and focused fiercely on the book. “Never mind. We can talk about that later. Listen.”

The book cast Voldemort as some kind of visionary hero who wanted to save people from themselves. Harry grumbled and muttered angrily about that, but he supposed it also wasn’t terribly shocking. It also taught him the spelling of that ‘Dahlcoat’ word, _Dálkót_ , which Harry presumed was the future version of ‘Dark Lord’. The depiction of the purebloods was surprisingly accurate, and Harry wondered why that was. There was no mention of blood, though – only a generic acknowledgement that ‘in those days’, “non-mages” (which Harry took to be ‘Muggles’) lived completely apart from “mages” (which Harry took to be ‘witches and wizards’).

Apparently the first of August was ‘Founding Day’, the holiday Issa had talked about for a bit yesterday morning. The _kaunk’evs_ of Britain got maybe a sentence, and then stopped being a problem by the next page, when Voldemort had conquered the rest of the magical societies in Europe. The thought made Harry sick, but he didn’t have much time to focus on it, because the book then began talking about something called the technomantic revolution.

Apparently, the Statute of Secrecy had been broken in 2169, when a muggle astronomy intern at NASA, in America, had accidentally apparated a home-made satellite drone right next to the International Space Station – something which Harry had had no idea even existed, but which Daumi informed him had actually been launched in 1998, at some point right around when Harry had been caught.

“But it was tech-only,” she said dismissively, completely ignoring Harry’s awe at the thought. A space station was something from science fiction books! Something that only Doctor Who would ever walk on!

Apparently, this had caused a lot of problems all over the world. The book claimed that many muggles immediately began to adopt magical practices, though Harry didn’t see how that could be so. There was a reason that they were muggles, after all, but… that was what the book was saying. Harry put the question aside for now.

Many of the muggle-only governments had apparently collapsed due to this discovery. While everyone was regaining their bearings, Voldemort had apparently quite easily finished snapping up the rest of Europe, which was more a feat of infiltration than opening new lands. And then, while China was – apparently – doing something very dramatic that Harry couldn’t make sense of, and everyone else was either arguing or breaking up with their previous governments, the Americans were –

The book referred to it as “vicious fighting between warlords”, but the image made him think that individual states were going at each other. The whole place had apparently fallen into the pit of implosion, until Voldemort had –

Harry shot up from the couch and paced away, unable to take it anymore.

“What’s wrong?” Daumi asked.

“America?!” Harry cried. “You’re telling me America is gone?!”

“Well, not technically,” Daumi said. “The land’s still there and all.”

“But the United States!”

“The what?”

Harry’s stomach rolled. “The – the country that was there before Voldemort stomped all over it!”

Daumi frowned down at the book. “I think I remember learning that it was pretty much not a country anymore by the time the Dálkót starting conquering it. But you could ask Issa. She loves ancient history more than me.”

“Yeah, like I believe that,” Harry muttered.

“Come sit back down, there’s still a bit more.”

The conquering of the United States – Harry still couldn’t wrap his mind around that phrase – was described in some detail. He tried not to listen too hard, and noted with glee that Hawaii and Alaska escaped, and still existed, and that Voldemort had left Canada alone.

At that point, there were no more conquerings, for which Harry was – not grateful. It was far too many conquerings than it ever should have been, but at least Voldemort hadn’t gone and conquered the entire world, which Harry had unwillingly started to fear had been the case. Instead, there was some weird political stuff that Harry couldn’t quite understand the significance of, as the country – which was apparently called _B’itá_ , but which sounded more like _Bittah_ – adjusted to being transatlantic.

Then Daumi closed the book, despite there being a couple of pages left. Harry blinked at her.

“Why did you stop?” he asked.

“The rest is just civics,” she said. “You’ll probably just get angry at them, so they’re not really useful to you. That’s all the history.”

“What do you mean by ‘civics’?” Harry asked.

“How to be a good citizen,” Daumi said. “That sort of thing.”

Harry thought for a moment about what he imagined Voldemort’s response would be to that fill-in-the-blank question. He grimaced.

“Yeah, exactly,” Daumi said. She put the book back in the box and rummaged around. “Here, this one’s got nothing to do with the government…”

  


* * *

  


“So I heard you know what our incredible Dálkót looks like,” Issa said.

Harry stared at her, eyes trained on the bridge of her nose, and willing himself to be as blank-faced as possible. “You did, did you?”

They were eating dinner in the sitting room. The couch wasn’t pulled out anymore, and instead, the table from the kitchen had been folded up like a piece of origami into a miniscule square of wood, carried through the doorway, and then unfolded. Harry was certain that it was bigger than it had been, given that he, the twins, _and_ Issa and Mahi were all sitting comfortably at it. He just had absolutely no idea how it had managed to be bigger.

He would much rather be eating than talking about Voldemort. He had stayed up late last night deciphering children’s books – on his own, this time, which pleased him greatly. He also knew how to spell some words, now – thank Merlin they still used English letters and he didn’t have to re-learn how to write or anything.

The word he’d been hearing over and over, spelled _détitt_ , did in fact mean ‘Death Eater’. Harry wasn’t too happy about the fact that they were generally portrayed as the good guys in the books that did feature them.

He probably shouldn’t have stayed up so late, though. He’d had another nightmare as soon as he laid down to sleep, this time of being unable to move, but aware, as Voldemort dressed him in the same fancy burial robes. It had disturbed him so much that he’d been unable to stomach any breakfast beyond a glass of water, and he was only now eating his first meal of the day.

Issa didn’t allow him to deflect, though. “I did indeed,” she said. “And I have a very strong interest in hearing more, my son.”

She had also taken to calling Harry her son, despite his attempt to explain that, in fact, she wasn’t his mother, because of the basics of biology. She’d just laughed at him and told him that it was a metaphor, which didn’t make any sense.

“Why would you want to hear more?” Harry asked. He almost added something derogatory about Voldemort, but managed to stop himself. The twins had explained to him, just before the other two girls arrived, that Mahi would probably not take his apparently ‘disrespectful’ behavior very well. Harry didn’t know how he felt about that, but he got the sense that trying to push the issue would only descend into an argument where neither party could be convinced that they were wrong, so instead, it would just be him and Mahi yelling at each other. Harry definitely didn’t have the energy to deal with that.

“I am intensely curious,” Issa said, snagging another of the little blackberry pastries from the middle of the table. “That’s literally the only reason.”

“You shouldn’t even be asking,” Mahi muttered.

“Aw, c’mon. Look at the ancient _kaunk’ev_ sitting at the table. What’s asking what the Dálkót looks like in comparison?”

Mahi sighed, and chugged the rest of the broth directly out of her soup bowl. Issa returned her attention to Harry, grinning devilishly and planting both of her elbows on the table.

Harry frowned down at his food for a moment – some kind of pasta salad that was disturbingly normal, for it being a thousand years in the future. “Well, I mean,” he said slowly. “For a while he looked like a snake.”

Issa howled in glee, while Mahi and the twins collectively choked on whatever was in their mouths – in Daumi’s case, it looked like that had been air. “Say more right now!” Issa shrieked.

“Well, I mean, he was really pale and I think he had scales? Silvery ones, tiny,” Harry went on, trying to recall the few times he’d been close enough to really try and see such detail. “Maybe not. If I was ever close enough to him to tell, I was usually more focusing on getting the hell away from him.”

“Sensible,” Mahi wheezed.

“He didn’t have a nose, either. Just flat slits.”

Mahi choked again, doubling over this time. Samenta was crying tears of what looked like hysterical laughter, and Issa was grinning so wide her face was threatening to split.

It was almost like sitting at Gryffindor table again, messing around with the other boys in his year. Harry almost forgot what year it was.

“He probably doesn’t look like that now,” he told them once they’d recovered enough to hear him. “When I got captured he was back to looking like how he’d looked as a person – or,” he frowned. “I guess, what I expect he’d look like as a normal adult human. I only know what he looked like as a human-looking teenager.”

“The Dálkót was a teenager once,” Samenta mouthed slowly.

“How’d you manage to be a _kaunk’ev_ and also know what he looked like as a teenager?” Issa asked.

“Pensieve.”

“Wow, you had those back then? So what’s he look like?”

Harry wasn’t sure if he could describe Voldemort in a way that did the man justice. No words, he thought, could really describe the malevolent aura that soaked whatever room he stood in.

“Well, he has black hair,” he said, deciding to just focus on the basics. “When he was a kid he had gray eyes but they turned bright red at some point and they’ve been red since then, as far as I know. Really pale skin. Cheekbones.”

“Maybe you can draw us a picture.”

“I’m rubbish at drawing. It’d be a stick figure.”

“What about his height?” Issa asked instead, apparently not to be deterred. “Is he tall? Please tell me he’s tall, it would be an absolute tragedy if he was short.”

“Er,” Harry said. He felt the conversation had taken a bit of an odd turn. “No, he’s on the taller side.”

Issa nodded solemnly. “There is justice in the world, then,” she said.

“There isn’t,” Harry shot back, “because he’s still around despite all the people he’s murdered.”

“That’s a matter of perspective and historical revisionism,” Issa said, “which means it’s not my problem. More importantly – is he fit?”

This time, Harry was the one who choked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's not in a great place right now. Honestly V isn't really in the greatest of places either. When I've fully worked out why I keep thinking of this as a romantic comedy in my head, I'll get back to you.


	8. Loti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _loti_ (n) a strong feeling of allegience to another individual, or a strong desire to support another individual; loyalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided I wasn't gonna go to sleep until I finished this chapter. I had to re-write about half of it, and re-arrange the other half, but I got it done, and once I got to the part with Voldemort and Nagini, it practically wrote itself. I know Nagini doesn't get a lot of characterization in canon, but I just adore her so much. She's my favorite.
> 
> A brief CONTENT WARNING for this chapter: Harry being uneducated about non-heterosexual sexualities and non-cis gender identities. Some slurs commonly used for LGBT+ individuals in the 1990s (as far as I can tell), referenced only once, in context of Vernon Dursley being a homophobic and transphobic fuck like nobody is surprised he is.
> 
> Some of the slurs may or may not have been since reclaimed by the community, depending on your point of view and personal experience. I consider the one which applies to me to be reclaimed, thus why I claim it as applying to me, but I had a friend who very much considered it still a slur, so YMMV. Take care friends. <3

  


* * *

  


“The twins told me you were having nightmares,” Mahi said.

Harry didn’t answer her for a moment. They were cleaning up the dishes from lunch while Issa and the twins stayed in the sitting room and talked. Harry had worried that it would be awkward to interact with Mahi, given what the twins had told him earlier that day, but this was the first thing she had said directly to him.

“Okay,” he said finally.

“Well – I – ” She swallowed audibly. “Are you alright?”

“All my friends and family are dead, and the guy we were trying to stop from taking over the whole world and turning it into a hell-hole did that anyway. I’m just peachy.”

“It’s not a – ” Mahi cut herself off, though Harry knew exactly what she’d been about to say. “Right. I guess that’s reasonable.”

She didn’t say anything more as they continued with the washing. Harry wished she hadn’t said anything. They’d had an okay silence going, almost companionable, and now he felt like he should fill the silence that before had been just fine on its own.

“I thought you didn’t like me very much,” Harry heard himself asking. He picked up the empty soup tureen and started to rinse it. “You got all mad when I said I was a… _kaunk’ev_.”

“You didn’t…” Mahi huffed, and took the tureen from his hands, wiping it down somewhat viciously. “It wasn’t much to do with you. I was really stressed, and then you started talking about rebellions, like that’s a normal thing people do.”

“Isn’t it?” Harry said.

But there had never been all that many people in the Order, he thought again. When he and Ron and Hermione had snuck into the Ministry to steal the locket from Umbridge, there had been people everywhere. All of them couldn’t have been Death Eaters – they were normal people. And they just… kept going to work? Harry didn’t understand that at all, but there it was.

Mahi stared at him with a similar incomprehension. “No, it’s not!” she said.

“Okay, fine,” Harry said. “Maybe you’re right, because there were still a lot of people in the 1990s who just kept going to work after – ‘Founding Day’.” He definitely sounded disgusted when he said those words, but Mahi didn’t comment. “But in my life that was basically all I did, ever.”

Slowly, she nodded. “Alright,” she said. “But you’ll just get killed if you try that now. And then we’ll probably all just get killed, too.” She met his eyes as she said this. “I don’t want to get executed because my friends were dumb and woke you up. For some reason there’s no picture of you, and no – ” something “ – so there is the _slightest_ chance that we could get away with this and nobody will know. But that’ll only happen if you don’t do something stupid and get us all executed.”

That shouldn’t even have to be a thing you’re worried about, Harry tried to say. People shouldn’t be worried about being executed.

“You don’t even know me,” he said instead.

“You just told me your entire life was based around being a _kaunk’ev_ and fighting the Dálkót,” she said. “For how long? I mean.” She took a step back as Harry handed her the last plate. “How old are you anyway? Not counting all the time you were asleep.”

“I’m eighteen,” Harry said. “Unless it’s July?”

“It’s May.”

“Okay, eighteen, then,” Harry said.

“What, and your whole life is based on that? One year of fighting?”

“Where’d you get that from?” Harry snapped, crossing his arms. “I had to fight him the first time when I was eleven, thanks. And then he showed up basically once a year. Or someone who worked for him,” he amended, thinking about his third year.

Mahi was looking at him in horror. “You were eleven?” she whispered.

“It wasn’t like I tried to go fight him,” Harry defended himself. “I was just trying to protect the stone – the philosopher’s stone, I mean. We didn’t even know Voldemort was involved, we thought it was somebody else trying to steal it. Voldemort just happened to be there when I got through the last protection, and we didn’t really fight. He just talked a lot and tried to convince me that he’d resurrect my parents if I gave him the stone – which was a lie – and then when I refused he told Quirrell to…”

And then Quirrell had died, Harry suddenly remembered. He’d burned.

How had he forgotten that? Or had he not forgotten, and only hadn’t thought about it for so long that it surprised him to remember now?

He shook his head and found himself leaning against the counter where the sink was, where before he’d been standing upright. His elbow was planted in a puddle of soapy water.

“Harry?” Mahi said gently. She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Harry said. He forced himself to stand back up straight. “I just remembered something I hadn’t thought about in a while. I’m fine.”

Had he killed Quirrell? At the time he’d forced himself not to think that thought. He hadn’t been able to afford to dwell on it, with the Dursleys approaching like a specter over the horizon. And then it had been rather crazy in his second year, and he’d simply forgotten to think about it.

“Did something like that happen every year?” Mahi said slowly.

Harry snorted. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Let’s see, cursed Voldemort diary and a basilisk, Wormtail, the graveyard, the Department of Mysteries…” He faltered as he remembered Sirius, but pushed on. “And then that fucked up zombie cave. And Hogwarts got stormed and Dumbledore died. And then a few months later it was… ‘Founding Day’,” he said again distastefully. “And I got a huge bounty put on my head so I didn’t go back to school.”

She was staring at him. Was any of that so surprising? Then again, Harry thought, maybe his perspective was a bit skewed… but everyone at the time had known about the crazy things that tended to happen around him. They must have – it was all rather hard to miss.

“Why did you keep fighting if you were just a kid?” Mahi asked.

“Well, he sort of wanted me dead, didn’t he?” Harry said. “He tried to kill me when I was only one year old! It didn’t work, but I mean.” He touched his scar reflexively. It still didn’t hurt at all. He briefly considered trying to sense anything from it, but that idea felt far too dangerous.

“He what?!” Mahi cried. “But a baby would be covered by the exclusion clause!”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“People age 16 and under can’t be executed or tortured,” Mahi recited. It sounded like something that she had memorized, but Harry was a bit busy boggling at the sheer improbability of the statement she seemed to be making.

“That’s a lie,” he said, unable to imagine any other explanation. “That’s nothing like Voldemort.”

“It’s the law,” Mahi said sternly.

“What, and he just follows the law?”

“I think he made that law,” Mahi said. “Why wouldn’t he follow it?”

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say that would properly express his complete and total disbelief. The way that Mahi was frowning at him obviously said that she knew he didn’t believe her, either.

“You don’t believe me because he attacked you when you were younger than that,” she said slowly.

“Yes.”

She pursed her lips as she put away the dish towel. “… And you’re sure it was him?” she said. “The Dálkót?”

“Very,” Harry said coldly.

“Alright, fine, I guess we’ll just say that that’s true,” Mahi said. The tattoo on her cheek and neck was twirling a bit faster than usual. “I…” She paused, and took a deep breath. The tattoo’s frantic motions across her skin slowed. “Okay, let’s just not talk about that, I guess. You promise you won’t go do something stupid and rebellious that’ll get everyone executed?”

“I won’t,” Harry said. “Really, I won’t. I absolutely don’t want anyone to die because of me.”

He really didn’t. There had been too much of that in Harry’s life already.

“… You’re not really like how _kaunk’evs_ are in books and shows.” She looked away as she talked. A strand of her hair had found her way into her mouth, and she chewed on it for a moment before she seemed to realize what she was doing and pulled it out.

“What’s that mean?” Harry asked. “How are _kaunk’evs_ in books?”

She darted a glance at him. “Well, they’re all sort of – mean. Vicious, you know? Definitely would hurt innocent people. But you don’t seem like that at all.”

“You just described how Death Eaters were in the 1990s,” Harry said.

“Maybe you think that because you were a _kaunk’ev_ and they were fighting you.”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “They were definitely bad people. Like – ” He groped for the name of a Death Eater, but there were just so many options. “Bellatrix Lestrange,” he said finally. “She was a total maniac. There was a – a point in 1981 when Voldemort vanished, and she went and tortured two people into insanity just because she was angry about it.” He swallowed back the bile that threatened to creep up his throat when he thought about it. “They were the parents of one of my friends. Neville. I think you’d probably think he was a _kaunk’ev_ , too, but he’d probably be proud to say that he was after what Death Eaters did to his parents. He was only one year old when it happened.”

Mahi didn’t say anything. Harry didn’t feel very nice about winning the argument, though. When Mahi began to drift back into the sitting room, Harry moved to take her wrist, just so he could say what he wanted to say. “Is that why you were so mad about me all the time?” he asked. “Because you thought _kaunk’evs_ were terrible people?”

She blinked at him. Her tattoo twisted oddly, once, and then held still.

“… I guess,” she said. “I don’t know if we can be friends. I believe the Dálkót is a good ruler, and you seem to hate him. But as long as we both want to try not to get any one of us executed, I think we can get along.”

Slowly, Harry nodded. “I think that’s a good goal.”

  


* * *

  


They had been sitting in the sitting room for quite a while – using it for its intended purpose, Harry supposed. Daumi and Samenta were retelling many of the tales Harry had told them about himself and the 1990s, and Harry only had to interject every so often to correct or clarify some detail.

There was a general clamor of excitement when it came up that Harry had gone to Hogwarts. A thought occurred to him, and he was shocked that it hadn’t occurred to him before now. “You lot are witches, right?”

“… We’re witches?” Samenta asked him. She glanced around at the others.

“What are we witch?” Issa said with a small cackle. “Are we witch what?”

“What?” Harry said dumbly.

“Which is it, Harry?”

“It’s – no,” Harry tried. “Not like that. You’re witches. I’m a wizard. We all have magic.”

“You still didn’t say witch.” Issa reclined in her seat, while Mahi put her head in her hands. “But I guess you’re definitely old enough to be a wizard.”

“What? No, I’ve always been a wizard,” Harry said, feeling incredibly stupid. “Because I have magic. Right?”

“… Nooo?” said one of the twins.

“Age makes the wizard,” Issa said. It sounded like she was quoting something.

“Oh come on!” Harry cried. He was getting really tired of this runaround, whatever it was. “I can cast spells, right? Can’t you too?”

“Nope,” Issa said, popping the p.

“You can’t?”

“I can’t either,” Mahi said. “Issa and I aren’t mages.”

“But haven’t you – didn’t I see you casting spells? In the forest?”

“No,” Mahi told him. “That was just oracle channeling. That’s different.”

“But you said you have magic?”

“Well, yes,” she shrugged. “But all humans do. Only a very small amount are mages who can actually channel it with their bodies, though.”

“Us!” Samenta said, grabbing Daumi’s hand by the wrist and lifting them both up. “We’re mages! Harry’s one too,” she continued. “He keeps capping all our household _lees_.”

Issa burst into giggles.

“I’m sorry?” Harry tried. “I don’t – are you saying you’re not witches?”

“… Issa, help,” Mahi said flatly.

But Issa only shrugged. “No clue what he’s on about.”

“Alright, fine,” Harry said bitterly. “What do you think of when I say ‘witch’ or ‘wizard’, then?” He looked all around the room, making sure to catch everyone’s eye.

“A wizard is an accomplished mage who is also a Death Eater,” Mahi said shortly. “Probably one who’s distinguished themself in service somehow.” Harry forced himself not to ask after what could allow a Death Eater to ‘distinguish’ themself as Mahi pursed her lips and paused. “Witch is… if I say to you, ‘ _which one is it_ ’.” She cast a side glance at Harry when she had finished. “That ‘witch’.”

“But isn’t it also a mage who’s a girl? Or a woman?”

“Why do you have a word for that?” Issa said. “That’s dumb. What if somebody’s _nabá_ or whatever? Seems like a quick way to insult somebody.”

“Alright, okay, fine,” Harry said helplessly. “Nobody’s a witch anymore and I guess I apparently don’t count as a wizard either, everyone’s a mage – well, except for people who can’t cast?” He glanced at Mahi and Issa. “But – but you’re not muggles?”

Issa waved her arms around. “That’s an old insulting word for a non-mage,” she said. “Maybe don’t use it?”

“I’ve never heard that in my life,” Mahi said.

“Well, alright,” Harry said. “So Mahi and Issa aren’t mages. But Samenta and Daumi are?” They nodded. “Did you go to Hogwarts?” he asked the twins.

He’d expected happy nods, or perhaps, worse, the indication that the school no longer existed. Neither of those things happened, though, as instead the pair burst into cackles.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Why would we go to Hogwarts?” one of them – Daumi, he thought – snorted. “We’re _yub_ seven!”

“But you went to Hogwarts,” Mahi asked, staring at Harry intently.

“Yeah?” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“What _yub_ even were you?”

“Ah ah ah,” Issa said. “They didn’t have _yubs_ in the 1990s. So that might not mean anything.”

“Why is it such a big deal?” Harry said. “Every mage kid in Britain goes to Hogwarts.”

“What, all of them?”

“In the 1990s, yeah,” Harry said. “Explain what a… _yub_ is.”

“Oh, it’s your _píti_ ,” Samenta said. Then she frowned as Harry continued to look confused. “Your – your job rank? People with a better _ákákát_. More pounds. More galleons?”

“Oh,” Harry said. “You mean rich people.”

“I don’t think that means what you think it means anymore – ”

“No, high-risers are rich,” Issa said authoritatively. “It’s contractual.”

“Only kids whose parents are _yub_ one, or maybe two, get to go to Hogwarts,” Mahi explained.

“But seven doesn’t?” Harry said. “Wouldn’t seven be better than one?”

“No, lower is better. One is the highest. That’s people like, governors, and the left hand.”

“Who?”

“Governors are in charge of cities,” Mahi said. “The left hand is the title of the Dálkót’s second in command, in the military.”

“Can we get back to the story, please?” Issa said, flopping back to stare at the ceiling. “I wanna hear about ancient history.”

  


* * *

  


Actually, it seemed that all Issa wanted to hear about was every single incarnation of Voldemort that Harry had ever had to encounter. Specifically, she wanted to know whether or not they were fit.

“Why are you so obsessed with this?” Harry finally spluttered, when she whispered ‘But was snake-Dálkót fit?’ for the third time during Harry’s aborted attempts to relate additional details of the graveyard. For some reason, he found it very difficult to put the experience into words, despite how clearly everything that had happened was ingrained in his mind. Questions about the experience were correspondingly difficult to answer.

“I have to build an accurate picture of ancient history,” she said.

“I feel like you can do that without knowing whether or not Voldemort is – ” Harry shuddered “ – fit.”

“The question is probably treasonous, too,” Mahi pointed out.

“Like that matters at this point?”

“And why would I know the answer, anyway!” Harry cried. “I was going around trying not to get murdered by him, not going ‘now, if I were a girl, would I think Voldemort is fit’?”

Everyone looked at him a little oddly.

“Why would you need to be a girl to notice if he was fit?” Mahi asked.

“… Because I’m a boy?”

“Oh, good to know,” he heard Samenta mutter.

“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” Mahi said.

“It has everything to do with it?” Harry gaped. He would have gone on, but as he opened his mouth, a memory crossed his mind.

‘Freaks’ had been universally reviled in the Dursley household, of course. But not all freaks were wizards and witches. Freaks could also be nonmagical people, as Harry had occasionally learned during the times when Vernon would sit him and Dudley down and rail about the dangers of “queers” and “faggots” and “trannies”, which, as far as Harry could tell, generally indicated ‘men who fell in love with other men’, and possibly also ‘men who wore dresses’. Those talks had clearly been mostly for Dudley’s benefit. For a long time, he’d wondered if such people really existed. Mahi seemed to be implying that, yes, they definitely did, and so he supposed that that was probably where the confusion was coming from.

“I’m not a fag,” he said, trying to sound authoritative. It was true enough, after all – he’d kissed and dated Cho and Ginny, hadn’t he?

“You’re not a what?”

“I don’t know that word,” Issa said, frowning.

Maybe it wasn’t used anymore. Harry frowned. “I’m not a – I don’t like men like that,” he said.

“You said he was handsome when you described his weird diary-based teenage _luzák’em_.”

“Well, he was,” Harry said. “But pretty much everyone thought that about him when he was a teenager. His face is just put together that well.”

“So, what you’re saying,” Issa said, “is that yes, snake-Dálkót was fit.”

“No?!” Harry screeched. “Absolutely not?! He was disgusting!”

“Hmm.”

“He didn’t have a nose, Issa!”

  


* * *

  


Vóldamórt stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his forehead and the tip of his nose resting directly upon the glass. This close, he could see the many different shades of red that made up his irises, picked out in detail. He could see the much darker, almost maroon limbal ring around the edges – he could see the shimmering flecks of bright, saturated red that were the parts which caught the light sometimes, and which could make his eyes appear to glow in low light due to their reflectivity.

It wasn’t a usual effect of a simple color-changing vanity surgery, that reflectivity. You could get such an effect, probably, with a much more complicated surgery, most likely requiring the intervention of nanites to assist the procedure, rather than being merely accomplished with external magics alone. But Vóldamórt could not remember a time when he had not had eyes like this, and the appropriate sorts of microsurgery had not been developed until far after that time that he could remember back to.

He wondered how he’d gotten them. Humans weren’t born with irises like this, so he must have gained them somehow – but how? The question was unanswerable, and how he hated that.

At least the color was agreeable. He liked them well enough that he could not imagine himself with any other color.

This close, he could also see the bruising beneath his eyes, and the smudged remnants of the last time he had bothered to apply any eyeliner. That, that was what would not do. That was the whole point of coming to observe himself in the mirror. He had finally managed to drag himself from bed and he would be cruciated if he wasn’t going to at least do something with himself. He would go look at the watchers that ‘H’ had accessed in person. He was the Dark Lord, after all. Maybe he would see something that his soldiers would have missed. Maybe his person would have managed to leave a message for him, that only he and they might understand –

Why was it that with all the power he held, he felt singularly useless when it came to this entire debacle? Why had he not had his person on the Dark Mark, _with him_?

Maybe there was an answer to those questions. But if there was such a thing, he did not know it. The fossilized wards on the crypt had a structure dating to the early 2100s, and a lack of matrix cross-links that supported such a date. Vóldamórt could barely remember even the late 2100s, and he’d left himself no notes, his Pensieves from that time were just as corrupted as his brain’s memories, and he couldn’t remember why he had never seen fit to mention to himself that, yes, there _was_ one more cache of relics belonging to him that he hadn’t recovered when the first Dark Mark had been constructed and he had moved out of Ládá for good.

Surely it had been the most important such cache. Surely he wouldn’t have just left it there. Surely he would have remembered, in 2621, that it was there. Surely he hadn’t already been forgetting things by then.

Hadn’t he?

  


* * *

  


He forced a drone to scan the area around the watchers for life before he apparated down. Once again, he did not bother to alert anyone as to where he was going, or to request an honor guard. But this time, he did bring Nakíní. It was perhaps a long shot, and of course theoretically a soldier’s oracle was more than capable of picking up all the sensory details that a snake’s vomeronasal organ could touch, but Vóldamórt brought her anyway. She was special, after all. Maybe she would sense something that all the human eyes, augmented as they were, had missed.

“ _Smells like damp,_ ” Nakíní hissed from his shoulders once the apparition had finished, and she had had a chance to flick her tongue a bit. “ _Terrible._ ”

“ _You say that everything is terrible, darling,_ ” Vóldamórt hissed in reply. He glanced at the thin stone columns that droned quietly around the city, enforcing not only the shredder trap but the lockdown wards themselves. They were wavering gently in the breezeless air. The three nearest to him were faintly outlined in red, reacting to his presence already.

“ _Because it is!_ ” Nakíní hissed.

He did not reply, and instead turned on the spot, slowly taking in the area. There was a runoff drain right nearby – squinting, the Dark Lord made out the label _T’és-3j2_ inscribed above the archway. His oracle’s pages fluttered faintly from within his chest pocket, and a diagram of Ládá flickered into view with the relevant sector marked off in turquoise.

“ _I want to go on the ground. Put me down._ ”

“ _Can’t you just fall off of me? You fall off of the trees in our den all the time,_ ” he asked her as he turned again. The riverway continued through the watchers and into the treeline. It had crept quite close to the city since the last time he had been down here. Vóldamórt felt good about that, in a distant sort of way. It meant the various habitation ordinances were doing their job as they were supposed to.

It had been a while since he had given that order, he thought vaguely. 2594 – that made it four centuries now, didn’t it? Perhaps he ought to revisit the associated reports and projections. Maybe he could begin allowing civilians to live outside of cities again – a very small amount of them, of course. Only civically-minded ones, who had the right sort of temperament.

Then again, perhaps everyone had now gotten so used to city life that nobody would much want to move back out. It had been generations for them, after all, and that would be much less work in the end. Maybe revisiting the projections wasn’t even worth it. The birthrate of mages was up, and the leylines were much stronger than ever before recorded, so it wasn’t as thought keeping them in the cities would be bad.

“ _I don’t want to fall off of you,_ ” Nakíní was hissing. “ _That’s different than trees. Put me down with your weird hand things._ ”

“ _In a moment,_ ” Vóldamórt hissed. He gave a malcontented glance at the slice debris left loose in the river partway into the forest – what were the city monitors _doing_ , letting that sit there?

“ _I wanna go down. Why aren’t you doing anything?_ ”

Vóldamórt reached up and ran his fingernails gently along the back of Nakíní’s hood. She hissed happily, and stopped moving quite so much, or complaining about being put on the ground. He mentally marked the riverway with an urgent task for the city monitors, and then focused on finishing his brief survey of the area. Nothing else caught his attention, so Vóldamórt reluctantly began to unwind Nakíní from around his shoulders.

“ _Ew. No more scratches?_ ” she hissed.

“ _Maybe when we get back, darling,_ ” Vóldamórt hissed. “ _I want you to help me look for anything strange here. Especially anything that smells-tastes unusual, since you’re much better at that than I am._ ”

He knelt down and placed her gently on the mossy ground. She immediately reared up, hood partially flared and tongue flickering as she looked around and took in the surroundings. Vóldamórt left her to it, and stepped carefully over her coils in order to approach the nearest watcher.

It thrummed when he stopped before it, a deep red glow seeping from between its otherwise-invisible joinpoints. Vóldamórt gently rested his fingertips upon it, and a cloud of red honeycombs sprung into being and clustered across his skin, light skittering off of his many rings.

“Hello, my Lord,” said the neutral-gendered voice of the watcher.

Vóldamórt forced himself to switch from Parseltongue to Ilkis. “When was this sector last accessed, and by whom?”

“Last access date column 32 this sector, 3016 May 1, 21:46:37, by H.”

“Who is H?”

It was a recording of his own voice that spoke, this time. “ _You know this,_ ” it hissed.

Vóldamórt spat a curse in Parseltongue. Then, he took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. “Report all access history by H, all sectors.”

“3016 May 1, 21:27:05, column 32. 3016 May 1, 21:29:58, column 32. 3016 May 1, 21:46:37, column 32.”

So his person had only been here. And they had only ever touched the one column… how curious. Vóldamórt wondered why that would be. Perhaps unaware of the workings of a lockdown watcher? That technology had not been developed in the 2100s, after all, and the associated wards and rituals were not quite present in the literature yet, either. There was a longer gap between the first two touches and the last touch, too. Experimentation, perhaps, but by who? His person, or the thieves?

“Indicate column 32, this sector.”

The column two down from his right lit up bright red. It was across the thin sluice of the riverway – Vóldamórt released the column he had been interrogating and moved to cross, but stopped just as he was about to jump. He moved back down the slope a bit and scooped up Nakíní, and then he made his way across.

“ _Hey,_ ” she hissed when he scooped her up.

“ _Do you want to get wet?_”

“ _Ew. No. Terrible._ ”

Vóldamórt sighed, and set her down on the moss on the other side of the riverway. “ _Did you find anything over there?_ ” he asked.

“ _No. It’s plants._ ”

Vóldamórt allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment. “ _Alright,_ ” he hissed. “ _Will you look here for me, too, darling?_ ”

She reared up and started to taste the air again. Vóldamórt scratched fondly at the scales between her eyes for a moment before turning to the glowing column and pressing his hand to it.

Red light flickered. “Hello, my Lord.”

“Were the last three accesses to this column performed by H?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Play ghost of last three accesses chronologically,” Vóldamórt told it. Then he stepped back and waited.

The red honeycombs slipped off of his hand and vanished back into the column. For a moment, there was only silence and stillness, and Vóldamórt almost wondered if even this had somehow managed to malfunction. He thought perhaps he would die in spite of all his immortality, if that were the case. But the column moved then, going rigid in the same way it did when an authorized user approached, but not thrumming the way it should have if it were Vóldamórt, or a ranking soldier with an appropriate oracle. He frowned at that, but continued to watch.

Honeycomb lights burst across the surface of the column as it remained rigid. They were disjointed, scattering into individual lines and only rarely forming any true honeycomb, until a few moments had passed and they all abruptly coalesced at some point that Vóldamórt thought would not come up to much higher than the bottom of his ribcage. The touch-spot was supposed to form at chest level – so, his person was shorter than he was. He supposed that Alisias’ first event report had indicated that this was probably the case, but it was good to have it confirmed in this way.

The touch-spot moved around on the column, tracking an unseen individual. Vóldamórt halted the ghost at this point and ordered it to play back much slower, so that he could examine the ground for any sign of footprints where his person must have been stepping. To his increasing frustration, he found nothing, so he had to allow it to keep playing.

Strangely, the ghost remained in verification pattern for much longer than Vóldamórt usually saw it remain. Perhaps, whatever permissions his person had were so old in the system that they had had some trouble working properly? Or some trouble being recognized? How on earth had he managed to give his person watcher permissions if the watchers had been nowhere close to being designed in the 2100s, though?

But the access was accepted. The column bowed out, and the shredder threads retracted. They remained retracted for a while, during which Vóldamórt hungrily watched the outline of the hand that the honeycombs were making. He held his own out to compare – his person’s hand was smaller than his, which followed from a shorter height. No rings, or any sign of any scars, and all fingers appeared to be accounted for – at least on the right hand, which this seemed to be.

Then the hand withdrew, and the column un-bowed and the threads shot back out. But very quickly the touch-spot reappeared, and was touched again – the left hand this time. Still no rings or scarring, still all the fingers.

The whole palm finally met the stone, and Vóldamórt felt a jolt of adrenaline shoot through his spine. He had not felt anything like that in a very long time.

“Stop!” he cried. The ghost replay halted, leaving the handprint frozen and preserved on the stone. “Hold,” he told the column, and flicked his wrist.

Not many people were aware that the Dark Lord had an oracle like the rest of the populace did. Vóldamórt had it because he found it useful, and because he had a strange attachment to the skin of the ancient book that he’d stuck the formless arithmantic construct into. He couldn’t remember why the weathered, once-black leather cover with a lighter circular patch and gold and adamantium embossing on both back and front held such a strong sway over him. It was certainly useless as a book, whatever book it had been – all of its pages had rotted away centuries ago, and the binding glue of its spine (imagine, binding a book with glue) had long since given up the ghost by that point. Vóldamórt remembered using his own hands, magicless for once, to stitch the two covers back together, but he did not remember why he had needed this to occur. It had sat in his bedroom on his bedside table for decades before formless oracles had become possible, an empty cover that he couldn’t bring himself to either get rid of or to put into a glass case and treat as a part of his collection.

In the pocket in the chest of his robes, the oracle’s pages fluttered faintly. A thin copysheet shot out and enveloped the frozen ghost from the column for a moment before it floated away, spiraling back towards Vóldamórt, who caught it.

There was a handprint sketched out on the copysheet in stark red, as if a human hand had been pressed upon a wet stamp pad and then pressed to paper. Vóldamórt traced the creases and folds of the palm with his eyes, and – there, _yes_ , he thought with triumph so great that his heart fluttered from it. Fingerprints.

Distractedly, he waved for the ghost to continue playing. His person never pressed the full palm of their right hand against a watcher – the next access ghost was the left hand again. But it was no matter. Vóldamórt had one hand. He had the palm and the fingerprints, and surely there was a diviner somewhere in the ranks of his soldiers who could make something of that.

“ _You’re happy,_ ” Nakíní hissed from beside him. She sounded pleased.

“ _Yes, darling,_ ” Vóldamórt breathed. “ _I am very happy._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, Voldemort knows a lot more about what's going on than Harry does, insofar as navigating his environment and surroundings goes, while also knowing the names of things in that environment, and how they work (his unfair universal cheat code of being the Dark Lord notwithstanding). I've tried to keep things as unconfusing as possible for his POVs. For many of the new pieces of technology, their names are 'translated' into English (ie. 'copysheet'), even though nobody speaking Ilkis actually thinks of such an item as the something produced by the meaning of 'copy' put together with the meaning of 'sheet'. It's just a copysheet. My lovely readers, sadly, don't speak Ilkis. (Do I speak Ilkis, as the author and creator of the language? An interesting philosophical question.) But I have always tried to make the translations evocative enough to hopefully give everyone a sense of what is going on.
> 
> Writing Voldemort is also very different from writing Harry, because Voldemort tends to get morose and use weird vocabulary to talk about things. He also fixates on weird parts of his environment and uses them as jumping-off points for tangents. Harry has to be sort of driven to introspect by dialogue, generally. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble until I realized I needed to get the hell away from Harry's POV, because all he was gonna be doing was chattering with the girls. A lot of dialogue was cut from the first half of the chapter.
> 
> Some of the notes that I wrote to myself in Scrivener while writing this chapter can be found below.
> 
> -
> 
> Harry: "please never make me think of Voldemort as fit ever again"
> 
> me, the Author: "dude, you're in a Harrymort fanfiction. this is your life now."
> 
> Harry: *screaming*
> 
> -
> 
> Alternative summary: Holy Shit Voldemort If Any Herpetological Expert Saw Your Venomous Snake Handling Techniques They Would Immediately Die Of A Heart Attack Brought On By Total Lack of Any Safety Protocol


	9. Fæn'á

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _fæn’á_ (n.) the discovery of something that you should have suspected was there in the first place. distinct from _diaskv’i_ , which is the discovery of something nobody could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIIVE!!!! *play the Frankenstein's Monster theme here*
> 
> I'm so happy to finally have figured out this chapter. It gave me such bad writer's block, and then I had something of a mental breakdown in the second half of August... whoops? I'm better now, though.
> 
> Unfortunately, my grad school program has also started up again. I have to give that the priority, as that's what's eventually going to give me the Master's degree to get me my income in the real world, and I have to do well to keep my merit scholarship money. So updates to Mi Aedijekit will not be regular. I obviously don't want to not write – and I will try to update as much as I can! I just can't guarantee any sort of regularity. It's very possible we won't see more than one more update before December.
> 
> A note about some of the names. This chapter is entirely in the POV of people who speak Ilkis fluently. They interpret Harry's name to have a different spelling than English speakers would interpret, due to Ilkis having both a different alphabet and different spelling rules than English. For this reason, 'Harry' is 'Herí' below. We've already seen this in the 'Voldemort/Vóldamórt' dichotomy, as well, so I hope it won't be too confusing.

  


* * *

  


Vóldamórt was practiced enough at apparition to accomplish it without a sound. The soldiers on the apparition deck, arrayed facing a circle that was down for maintenance, did not even turn to notice him as he materialized with Nakíní around his shoulders. This was almost better, for it slowed him down less, and Vóldamórt immediately strode out through a warpway.

Diviners. He focused fiercely on the thought as he crossed the threshold. The hallway beyond was dark and sparsely lit with dim red lights every few meters. It seemed to have no end, but Vóldamórt kept walking intently. As he did the distant blackness shimmered and warped, until the hallway was no longer a hallway, but an atrium of sorts with multiple stories visible around the central area.

Vóldamórt veered left. A group of soldiers dropped to their knees and greeted him in chorus, but he did not have time for them.

“ _Why did you take me into the bad tunnel?_ ” Nakíní hissed as he flung open the door. The clerk just inside spoke a bit longer than the usual soldiers’ greeting would have been – he wasn’t listening, and merely walked further into the department. He barely managed to focus enough on Nakíní’s words to reply to her, frantically searching his personnel lists for any expert in palmistry that they might have.

“ _It’s not so bad,_ ” he managed to hiss.

“ _Is so. It’s so dizzy._ ” Nakíní reared up, as much as she could from his shoulder, and fake-lunged at his ear. Vóldamórt barely noticed, though across the room, a soldier flinched. “ _Don’t take me in there anymore._ ”

“ _I’ll try, darling._ ”

“ _Good._ ”

Palmistry was not a common divination tactic anymore. In this age, Vóldamórt supposed, the ease of remote viewing had made practitioners scarce. They only had three individuals who were possibly qualified enough to get him anything useful from his person’s palm-print, and of those three, there was one clear winner. Fortuitously, the individual in question, an enby named Tíll Sévai, was about to go off shift. Vóldamórt moved swiftly to the side of the divination department that was used to travel to the barracks in order to intercept em. As he did so he also sent eir oracle a summoning ping, just to be safe.

The Dark Lord and the soldier reached the barracks foyer at about the same moment. Sévai scurried over to him, kneeling and bowing eir head. Vóldamórt suppressed a frown as he noticed that eir mask was not fully snapped on, and eir hood was ever so slightly crooked – most likely indicating that ey had begun to take it off even before reaching the barracks. He added a note for a reprimand in eir CO’s flood, but buried it beneath the current blanket requisition of services so that it wouldn’t be seen until after Vóldamórt had a full report about his person pinned to his notice board.

Speaking of Sévai’s CO, he was skulking on the sidelines. Vóldamórt glanced at him and raised an eyebrow, and the man sank into a bow, mask pressed to the tiled floor.

“My Lord,” the man said respectfully – a bit too respectfully. Vóldamórt was quite certain that he detected obsequiousness in the tone.

“Do you require something, officer Istá?” he said shortly. The hissiness of Parseltongue was still layered across his tongue, and he didn’t bother to remove it.

“No, my Lord,” he said, though his voice still dripped. “I merely wished to ensure that Sévai received your directions promptly and acted accordingly.”

Translation, Vóldamórt thought: I want to take charge of whatever ey’ll be doing so I can get some of the credit. Perhaps all of it.

“Your presence is not required,” the Dark Lord snapped. “I will return your soldier to you when I am finished with em. Leave us, go about your off-hours.”

Istá hesitated for a bare second, and Vóldamórt wondered if he would get to cruciate somebody. He had recently worked over the team that had abjectly failed to capture the thieves immediately after the crypt had been broken into, of course, and Governor T’én had offered an unexpected opportunity for a bit more stress relief. But the entire situation was so trying that he certainly wouldn’t refuse another opportunity to see somebody screaming in the thrall of his magic.

But B’ám Istá apparently decided to be sensible, for he didn’t hesitate longer than that second. “Yes, my Lord,” he said instead, standing and bowing his way out of the foyer.

Sévai was trembling slightly as Vóldamórt returned his attention to em. He snapped his fingers and watched with muted enjoyment as the soldier jumped, even with bowed head. A quick mental shuffle through the personnel files indicated that Sévai was a relatively recent Academy graduate who had never interacted with eir Lord before. It was reasonably likely that ey had never even been in the same room as him.

That wasn’t really relevant, though.

“You have something of a talent for palmistry, don’t you, Sévai?” he said. “At the very least, you received an O+ in the topic.”

“Y – yes, my Lord.”

“Do you have any practical experience in palmistry outside the classroom setting?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“What experience? Why is it not on your file?”

He thought he heard the soldier suppress a wince. Then again, it could have been Nakíní hissing very softly. “It’s – it’s very informal, my Lord. I give readings to the other soldiers in the common room when we’re off-shift.”

Vóldamórt nodded slowly, more for his own benefit than Sévai’s. “Good. At least you’re in practice. I have a task for you – come.”

He didn’t bother to check that the soldier was following him. Sévai would be loyally at his heels if ey knew what was good for em.

“ _Darling,_ ” he hissed softly.

Nakíní stirred, lifting her head from where she had draped it over his shoulder. “ _What?_ ” she hissed.

“ _We have to go into the horrible tunnel again. I’m very sorry, but I promise this is the last time._ ”

“ _You’re the worst human._”

He almost laughed at the petulence in her hiss – not so much a truly amused laugh as an instinctive reaction to her denunciation. But he was in the company of a soldier, so that wouldn’t really do. He held it back, only allowing a breath of air to pass his lips, and focused on one of the empty retainer’s offices instead. The warpway deposited them directly into the suite. Vóldamórt ran a finger lightly over the desk as he strode around it, and noted with satisfaction that there was no dust.

He pulled out the copysheet with his person’s palm impression, duplicated it, and threw the duplicate into the illuso projector. Sévai stood by the door, one gloved hand clutching the other wrist as if frozen mid-wring.

Vóldamórt gestured at the illuso hanging in the air. “Explain to me what sort of information you can extract from this.”

Sévai finally unfroze at that, and Vóldamórt stepped away to allow the soldier more access to the illuso. For a few minutes he watched the soldier spinning the projection, making it smaller or larger, and tilting it at angles that Vóldamórt couldn’t exactly follow, as he had never trained himself on palmistry. It required interacting with people, after all, and of the forms of divination he indulged in, the remoter, the better.

Finally Sévai stepped back and glanced hesitantly towards Vóldamórt. “Am I right that this is the left hand, my Lord?”

“It is. The right hand is unfortunately not available.”

Sévai nodded slowly. “Without a live person in front of me I can’t give any sense as to the timeframe of anything I would read,” ey said. “But this is a good impression, so I can at least assess the lines. Because it’s the left hand, and I don’t see any heavy use callouses, this person is probably right-handed, so I wouldn’t be able to speak to certain things regarding their current life-situation or their conscious thoughts or physicality. I could give you any unacknowledged fate-loops, any generational curses or traits, subconscious emotional desires and beliefs, maybe a sense of whether or not they’re a mage. The imprint is very good, so it’s also possible that I could focus on it enough to scry for their current location or situation.”

Vóldamórt noted with some appreciation that Sévai’s voice had become less shaky as ey spoke on the topic at hand. It implied confidence in what ey was doing.

“If you do scry, only do that with a soulguard nearby to keep an eye on you,” Vóldamórt said. “And do that last, just in case you hit the wall that diviner Kelp hit. I want a complete report on every possible scrap of information you can pull from this before you possibly disable yourself.”

Sévai took in a short breath. “My Lord, is this the – ?”

Apparently the ship’s cafeteria gossip had reached peak dissemination. Vóldamórt allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment.

“I took this handprint from a watcher, thus the detail you see. It is indeed the person you’re thinking of.” He was already taller than Sévai, but he angled his head in that way which he knew made him appear even taller than he was. “You will be served a secrecy contract regarding everything you learn from this. I don’t want to hear any cafeteria gossip about it, and you are not allowed to speak of it with your CO. The illuso does not leave this room and you cannot put it on your oracle. Only Alisias Rássælt and I will be available to hear any findings you make. If after delivering your distance report to me you still believe it will be beneficial to attempt scrying, I will write you a soulguard clearance. But only then. Am I understood?”

Sévai nodded very quickly. “Yes my Lord.”

“I want this report as quickly as possible, but only if you do not compromise your ability to think analytically. You may take an off-shift now, as I understand you were about to sleep. I will assign Rássælt to check in on your progress periodically. If she believes you are overtired then she will force you off-shift. She will also report your progress to me. I do not want to hear from you directly unless your report is finished and you are ready to present it to me.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Do you have any questions?”

Sévai said nothing, but Vóldamórt detected a slight hesitation. “Speak.”

“I have some private reference books I would like to retrieve from my quarters, my Lord,” Sévai said. “And… my CO keeps blasting my oracle. I fear it will be distracting if I try to focus on the level of detail you wish.”

Vóldamórt looked at the flood. Sure enough, five urgent pings for Sévai to report immediately to Istá at the first possible opportunity. Holding back a sigh, he deleted them and shifted Sévai up the reporting hierarchy, until ey was in a special direct reports pocket just under Alisias. He also began to compose for her a perfunctory message explaining what was going on, and why.

“Rássælt is your new temporary CO,” Vóldamórt informed Sévai, who stilled in shock. “Ignore anything Istá tries to tell you to do. This is your only priority. You may use your private references, but you will have access to any established classified references which you require, so long as you go through Rássælt to obtain them and accept that your clearance will be revoked upon completion of your report.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Alisias had received the explanatory note and marked it as read. Vóldamórt kept half an eye on it as he left Sévai alone, but no request for any clarification came through. He therefore dropped it from his active flood and focused instead on locating B’ám Istá, who had made too much of a nuisance of himself for Vóldamórt to be able to deal with him reasonably.

He made sure to avoid the warpways this time, even if it meant forcing himself to take the long path back to the barracks where Istá was undoubtedly sitting up and waiting to ambush Sévai. “ _Do you want to see a human screaming, darling?_ ” he asked Nakíní.

“ _Do I have to go through the terrible tunnel again?_ ”

“ _No, darling,_ ” he hissed soothingly. One of his hands came up to gently scratch at her hood, without his consciously deciding to do so. “ _We’re walking there normally._ ”

“ _Good. Yes. Is this the blood rooms?_ ”

“ _No, not the blood rooms. Just one of my humans being a bit too annoying, so that I have to teach it a lesson._ ”

“ _Can I bite it?_ ”

“ _No, darling, you can’t bite it. I need it to stay alive for now._ ”

“ _Why are you being so mean today?_ ”

  


* * *

  


There were soldiers at the dóm-center. Mahi tried desperately not to look nervous about their presence, or to glance at them too often, or to look too nervous while she glanced. It was as if their uniforms were designed to draw the eye right to their faces, so that you would be hypnotised by the white, skull-like masks that sat bright as the only obvious feature within a mass of black fabrics. Then you would stare for too long, and your face would give you away if you had anything to be guilty about. Perhaps they had been intentionally designed with this effect in mind – Mahi wouldn’t put it past her Lord to have thought of such a thing. She tried to focus on Isa’s shoulder as the pair walked through the shopping district’s archway, and past two soldiers sitting on a low balcony that Mahi felt certain hadn’t been there last time she’d come to the shops.

Sweet magic, it had only been a week ago. One week ago, she had been normal, totally unworthy of notice. And now here she was, a bloody _traitor_ , waltzing under the eyes of her Lord’s will without a single ounce of shame. It was almost enough to make her change course and run to the soldiers, confessing her guilt in a yell, so that she could just feel relief. _I_ did it, _I_ broke into the Dark Lord’s vault, _I_ stole from him!

But she remembered also the sight of Herí’s panicking face, and didn’t do anything.

It was all stupid. She didn’t want to die. She shouldn’t be harboring a counter-revolutionary from a thousand years ago when her Lord obviously wanted to find him, and she shouldn’t be pretending like she hadn’t broken a lockdown order and snuck into the capital city anyway. But she had sort of done all those things, and it was too late now, because she _really_ didn’t want to die, which was undoubtedly what would happen if her Lord discovered anything about her involvement. Any chance she might have had for mercy was doubtlessly long gone.

There was a sharp nudge in her ribcage. “C’mon,” Isa hummed. “Stop looking so dour.”

Mahi glanced around quickly before returned her attention to her companion. No soldiers in sight, thank the Lord. “I’m not dour,” she muttered.

“Is this because of our new friend?”

“Don’t – !” Mahi stared around again. No soldiers, but she jumped when Isa grabbed her and hauled her into a little side niche where the recycling for the shops would normally go.

“Listen,” Isa hissed, shoving her face closer to Mahi’s than Mahi was strictly comfortable with. Her black eyes were narrowed. “I know you’re a goody-good with UBI 4 parents, Mah, but you have got to stop acting so hexed guilty all the time, okay? People’re gonna notice.”

“I – I don’t know how,” she stuttered.

“Just stop caring!” Isa said, spreading her arms. Her jacket swung with the force of the action. “Pretend you’re our Lord and savior’s Left Hand, or a Governor, or something. You have so many rights to be here. People should practically be _bowing_ to you!”

“But I’m _not_ any of those things.”

“It’s pretend. Like make-believe shit. You played make-believe with the broadcast flood as a kid, right?”

“No?” Mahi said, confused.

Isa rolled her eyes and swayed in exasperation. “Okay, forget I said anything. Pretend you’re past Mahi, then. You’re super goody-good. If you saw anyone shady, what’re you gonna do?”

“Report it?” Mahi said. “Obviously.”

“There you go! Now pretend we’re concerned citizens who just want to be helpful. Come on, let’s go shopping.”

They went shopping. Mahi slowly managed to stop herself from glancing warily around, when nobody wearing black came charging towards her screaming at her to get on the ground and surrender to arrest in the name of Lord Vóldamórt. If she focused, she could sort of pretend that they really were just shopping for a friend who was in a shitty situation, and not participating in any sort of exquisitely treasonous activity.

It helped that Isa took on most of the clothing selection – Mahi had no idea how to shop for people with a more masculine body type. Not that Herí was extremely masculine-looking. He had struck her as more of an enby the first time she had seen him, straight-bodied, but without broad shoulders. Yet he had been pretty explicit about being a boy, so. Masculine section. All Mahi had to do was follow Isa around and okay the color schemes. Not that there was much to approve – she and Isa had both apparently decided that the best way to go was to go factory monochrome-gray. Herí had claimed to be a mage, and the twins seemed to think it was true, so he could probably color-change whatever he wanted to change after the fact.

“Clothes,” Isa said shortly, looking into their shopping bag (provided by Mahi). “Boots. Sandals. Are we sure only three tunics is alright?”

“I think maybe you should let him decide if he wants to have an excessive wardrobe like you,” Mahi said.

“Excessive? Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I’m hurt.” Isa faked a swoon.

“How do you even afford all those clothes?” Mahi asked as she swiped her gal-card at checkout. “We’re UBI 7. That’s not really conducive to wardrobes like yours.”

“Secrets, Mahinkax. Deep dark secrets.”

Mahi rolled her eyes.

“No, seriously, you don’t want to know. Herí’s got you under enough stress as it is.”

Oh sweet magic. “Don’t tell me.” Mahi looked away and pointedly didn’t think about it again.

Isa laughed, and twined her arm into Mahi’s. “Oh, my favorite naive friend,” she said.

They picked up some odorless toiletries, so that Herí didn’t have to keep stealing Samenta and Daumi’s, and in case he didn’t like whatever scents they preferred. Then they spent a while arguing about the correct foundation color to get for a basic makeup kit, but ended up just going with the same one that would have worked with Mahi’s skin tone. They were similar enough, since she and Herí both had a roughly Ádi phenotype, and if he didn’t like it, they’d probably be able to return it and grab a new one.

“I wish we knew what kind of food he likes,” Mahi mumbled as they passed a food vendor set up on the street. “Then we could get him some snacks.”

“I’ve got a gal-card for that, probably,” Isa said. “I could just lend it to Daumi the next time she goes shopping for groceries.”

“Isa, I _don’t_ want to know about – ” She forced her voice to a hissed whisper. “About your illegal gal-cards!”

Isa didn’t look nearly as ashamed as she ought to have. “You clearly already know about them, darling. I don’t see why you have to get so mad when I mention them.”

“Because you shouldn’t have them!” she hissed. “It’s bad enough that – you know. _Herí?_ ”

“I mean, I’m planning to think of this as my crowning glory.” Isa glanced upwards at the black splotch in the sky that was the Dark Mark. Mahi looked up, too, and tried not to look guilty or to bite her lip. The warship hovered farther away than it could have been, admittedly. That she could see it at all still felt too close. She tried not to imagine her Lord up there, quite possibly seething with wrath at what she had done – not that he knew, right now, that it had been her. Mahi was quite certain that the Dark Lord Vóldamórt didn’t know, right now, that Mahinkax Peta had anything to do with Herí’s rescue and disappearance, or else she would be on that ship right now. Or maybe she would be dead right now.

It was harder not to imagine him, now that Herí had described him. A tall man of Ekló phenotype, with even paler skin than usual for Ekló people, and black hair, and red eyes. If he was really Ekló – and Herí seemed to know what he was talking about, which Mahi still found shocking – then Vóldamórt’s hair was probably actually a very, very deep brown color, not truly black, since Ekló people didn’t really have truly black hair. Then again, phenotypes were mutable, so who knew. Maybe he did have truly black hair.

She’d sort of prefer that she never had to meet him to find out.

“It’s not _my_ crowning achievement,” she muttered miserably. “More like my worst fuck-up ever.”

She felt an arm wrapping around her shoulders. Despite Isa’s slightly shorter height, Mahi thought the girl beside her felt more sturdy than Mahi had felt since they had run away with Herí. She leaned on her a little, grateful that Isa wasn’t trying to chatter the way she often did.

“You wanna get ice cream?” Issa said, after they had stared at the crown jewel of their military’s space fleet for a while. “We could get extra and bring it back to the flat. I don’t remember when they invented ice cream but Herí might never have eaten it.”

“I could really use some ice cream right now,” Mahi murmured.

They picked up pints and a bag of cones before heading out. This time, Mahi managed not to feel quite as nervous when they passed by the soldiers on their way out. They still didn’t pay any mind to her or Isa, and when they were out of sight and finally heading off on a taxi-bike, Mahi managed to breathe a little sigh of relief.

“See?” Isa said, arranging the bags of goods in the cargo bin as Mahi programmed the bike’s KPS for the twins’ flat. “Not so bad.”

The bike was a little rusted on one wheel, and shuddered initially as it rose into the air. Mahi rubbed its hull encouragingly, and it evened out as it inserted itself into the flow of traffic. It was still slow going, though – she checked its registration and saw that it had been active since 2977.

“We should have taken a bus,” she muttered, as they rocked a bit in the wake of a passing mag-lev.

“No, we shouldn’t have,” Isa said. She pointed across the way, towards one of the industrial districts, and Mahi peered between two skypiercers to see –

“Oh _hell_ ,” she gasped.

Smooth Aisle was practically a brick wall floating in the air, rather than the invisible flight track it ought to have been. It was made not of bricks, but of buses and halted mag-levs and cargo drags, packed so close together that Mahi worried one of them might crash. Hoppers floated and scurried over the whole thing, and a few temporary scaffolds and bridges even looked like they’d been erected around the place.

“What’s going _on_ over there?” she gaped.

“I bet it’s the lockdown,” Isa said. “Nobody can get their crap through the apport because all the app circles got sliced and diced. I have no idea what Public Transport had to do to keep the buses away from that mess.”

Mahi swallowed, and the massive back-up was swallowed by a tree-studded district boundary. “I feel bad for the other cities.”

“They can live without us for a while. Oh, wait!” Isa suddenly straightened up and grabbed for the KPS. “Drop us. Or circle around and backtrack to the flat, there’s a surprise checkpoint like three lanes down at Laxíz and Yexi.”

Mahi slammed the KPS panel in panic. The bike dropped obligingly, if a bit faster than Mahi was strictly comfortable with, dodging around a couple of trellises until finally they hit a new lane. The merge was a little rough. Somebody trying to carpet-skate sheered off and flipped a rude hand gesture at them, which Isa returned with glee.

“This is going to take forever,” Mahi winced. “How did you know there was a checkpoint?”

“Deep dark secrets?” Isa tried.

Mahi put her forehead on the dashboard.

“No, but actually, one of my buddy’s buddies just got out of being stopped and spammed our whole network. We’ve got this nice little soldier-dodging ó-spell. I’m trying to get permission to add you lot, and Herí.”

“Add me? To your _criminal_ enterprises? And what do you mean ‘add Herí’, he doesn’t have an oracle.”

“I’m working on that.”

“He doesn’t have a _registry profile!_ Or a birth certificate, probably!”

“Working on that too.”

“Nevermind. Don’t tell me anything more.”

“If you don’t want me to mention it, you should stop asking, darling.”

Thankfully, they made it back to the flat without further incident. The bike wheezed and clanked a bit as it scooted back into the air, and Mahi watched it worriedly until it was out of sight. Isa had talked her out of reporting it for maintenance, but she felt guilty. What if it gave out on its next rider and they didn’t have a slowfall talisman, or weren’t able to grab the bounce-belt in time?

She tried not to think about it as they dropped into the twins’ entrance hall. “I come bearing gifts!” Isa crowed, holding out her arms like an ancient victory statue. Mahi rolled her eyes, and felt a little justified in it as Herí, who had been sitting in one of the sitting room armchairs with a children’s book, snickered softly.

One of the twins poked her head out of the kitchen – purple earrings, so probably Daumi. “Where the hell did you go?” she asked. “I thought you said you were leaving early.”

“Had to take a fancy route here to avoid soldiers,” Isa said. “Not that it would have mattered if we had been stopped, they were all just routine. But Mahi’s jumpy.”

“I’m so sorry I feel justified nervousness.”

“Soldiers?” Herí said with intensity.

Mahi jumped. Somehow he had snuck up right behind her and Isa as they focused on Daumi. For a moment she wondered where the hell he’d managed to learn to move so quietly, before she remembered what he was.

“Soldiers, yes,” she said, opting for factuality as she turned to face him. She wasn’t certain if their odd truce agreement from yesterday still held.

Herí still looked nothing like a counter-revolutionary ought to look. Admittedly, maybe part of it was the clothing he had borrowed from the twins. The pants fit alright – were even a bit long, though he’d tied them up at the knee effectively so that it wasn’t very noticeable. The tunic even managed to fit his shoulders, because he didn’t have very broad shoulders, but it was clearly very baggy around the chest – meant for somebody who had breasts, which he clearly didn’t have. Oddly, he hadn’t complained about this at all – Mahi wondered if he’d even noticed.

He was short, though. Short and a bit scrawny, and he had bags under his eyes that looked like they’d never go away. The strange lightning-shaped scar on his face cut through his left eye and down his cheek, one of its tendrils trailing almost all the way down to the corner of his mouth. It must have hurt a lot when he’d gotten it, and it sucked that they hadn’t had skin reconstruction in the ancient 1990s – so he’d just have to live with it. Even if they ever managed to get him to a medical specialist, it was no doubt too late to coax the skin to de-scar. The morphic resonance would be too settled, and a total re-skin was definitely not something they could afford.

She couldn’t imagine how somebody so short, and with such a vulnerable-looking scar, could ever have seemed intimidating to her Lord’s ancient soldiers.

Herí’s mouth twisted a little, and his brows furrowed into a strange expression. “Why?” he asked. “Are you okay? What they wanted?”

“‘What did they want’ is a better way to say it,” she corrected absently. His grammar was getting better, even though he’d only been reading books for a couple of days. It was probably a good thing.

His eyes narrowed a little impatiently. “What did they want, then?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. We didn’t get stopped.”

“Zósif said it was standard,” Isa chimed in. At Herí’s blank look, she clarified. “The city’s locked down, right? So the soldiers have checkpoints to look for ‘suspicious people’.” She sketched air-quotes around ‘suspicious people’. “We would have been fine but it’s easier to avoid them.”

Herí nodded slowly. “Okay. Good.”

His shoulders relaxed a little as he spoke. Mahi wondered if he’d been worried for himself only, or – maybe for them, too?

She hoped it had been for them as well as himself.

“We got you things,” she said, wanting to move on. Hopefully he would take it as the further offering of continued truce that it was.

Herí’s intense look vanished completely, changing to confusion. “Things?” he repeated. “For me?”

“Yeah. Here.” Mahi grabbed the bag with the essentials from Isa, leaving her with just the ice cream. Further down the hall, Samenta emerged from the library room. Mahi didn’t pay much attention, and handed the bag to Herí. “There’s clothes that should fit you better, and some shower things, and a makeup kit.”

Herí squinted into the bag. Some kind of mental calculation was going on behind his green eyes. “… Makeup?” he said slowly. “Are you mean, things girls put on their face? Lipstick?”

“Yeah?” she blinked. Had he never had a basic makeup kit before? That was an absolute tragedy. Didn’t everyone need one of those in their wardrobe?

Herí stared at her with a bewildered expression. “… I’m a boy,” he said slowly.

“Yeah, you said,” said Mahi.

“Boys don’t wear makeup?” She thought he had meant it to be a statement, but it came out sounding more like a question.

“Um.”

Isa leaned into the conversation. “Everyone wears makeup now. Or can wear. You don’t have to use it but you should have it.” She patted the kit sitting at the top of the bag.

Herí’s face twisted oddly. “Boys wear makeup?” He sounded totally flabbergasted.

“And girls, and enbies,” Isa finished. “But only if you want to.”

“Do boys really not wear makeup in the 1990s?” Mahi asked. It seemed absolutely impossible. What if they had bags under their eyes and they needed to appear at a fancy public event? They couldn’t just _go_ and let people see that! And surely the teenagers would want to use concealer on any particularly bad bouts of acne?

But Herí was nodding his head. “They don’t,” he said. “It’s only girls.”

“Weirrrrrd,” Samenta muttered from the edge of the conversation.

Herí picked up the makeup kit, stared at it for a moment longer, and then put it to the side. He sat down on the couch and started to unpack the rest of the little care package. Mahi stayed, in case he needed more clarification on anything, while Isa and the twins vanished into the kitchen to break out the ice cream.

“No colors?” Herí asked once he got to the clothes.

“We didn’t know what colors you like,” Mahi said. “You’re a mage, though?”

“… Yes?”

“They can be color-changed if you want. I think there’s an instruction pamphlet…” She reached in and fiddled around until she had managed to draw it out. “Oh. Um. If you have trouble reading it, Samenta or Daumi can probably help?”

“But I don’t have my _wánd_ ,” Herí said. His voice was filled with such despair that Mahi almost wanted to give him a hug. She didn’t know what a _wánd_ was, though.

“I don’t know what _wánd_ is,” she told him. “Do you need a channeller?”

“A what?”

“A – something to push the magic through.”

“Right, like my _wánd_ ,” Herí griped.

Oh, of course. Mahi nodded in understanding. It was probably some kind of ancient channelling device that she’d never heard about because she’d never studied mage history. “Well. Samenta and Daumi could help, maybe? With that also.”

“I can help with what?”

Mahi turned to see Daumi standing in the threshold between the kitchen and the sitting room, spooning toffee ice cream into her mouth. “Help Herí change his clothes colors. He doesn’t have his usual channelling device.”

“Oh,” she said thickly, through a spoonful of dessert. “Mm. Yeah. Mm-hm.” She finished swallowing. “What colors do you like, Herí?”

Herí was holding up one of the tunics, rubbing the fabric between his fingers curiously. “… I’m not really sure,” he finally said. Mahi made a noise of surprise, and he looked up. “I never really got to pick the colors,” he said. “Er. When I was little everything tended to be brownish or gray. Then Hogwarts uniforms were black and red and gold for me. And then I was a fugitive and you just wore whatever clothes you got because you can’t really be picky then, right?” He looked back down at the monochrome clothes. “These look fine. They’ve even got different shades of gray and black, so it’s not like they’re a prison outfit.”

It was true enough, Mahi supposed. Something about it didn’t sit right with her, but she couldn’t figure out exactly what.

“Herí, what ice cream flavor do you want?” Samenta called from the kitchen, thankfully interrupting the increasingly awkward moment.

He blinked in shock. “There’s ice cream?”

“Yeah.” Samenta poked her head out. “What flavor?”

“… I,” he said slowly. “Are they still normal?”

“We have vanilla, chocolate, toffee, and henk.”

Herí frowned again. “Henk?” he repeated.

“Don’t eat the henk if you don’t know what it is,” Daumi said immediately. Mahi had to agree with that assessment. Who knew if they’d even had henk in the 1990s?

“Oh, alright,” Herí said. He still looked a bit confused, but everyone seemed willing to let it slide for now. “I know I like chocolate, anyway.” He cast a glance at the tunic in his hand. “Do you mind if I change?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Daumi. “You can use our bedroom if you want. Or the bathroom,” she added, when Herí looked scandalized. He immediately scampered off, and Mahi made her way into the kitchen. While normally she’d go for the vanilla, she had half a mind to mix at least a little bit of the henk into it. Everything had been far too stressful and vaguely exciting lately, and she just wanted to relax a bit. She wouldn’t take enough to get totally stoned, just enough to take the edge off –

There was a shriek of terror from down the hall.

  


* * *

  


_Summary paragraphs of special report TS-3016:e39:p, titled ‘Palmistry Analysis, ‘H’, left hand’. Recovered from the personal oracle of the Dark Lord Vóldamórt, storage cell A1._

_Author: Tíll Sévai._

`… That said, the following divinations can be established with confidence of 90% or higher. Because only one hand is available, timeframe cannot be established except where outside factors of the timeline indicate implausibility of certain options.`

  * `H’s spiritual health and awareness are currently significantly compromised by volatility, as indicated by disturbances to the life line. These disturbances are located early in the life line and even out towards the end, thus occurring earlier in life rather than later, but it is unclear if they are entirely in the past or not.`
  * `H has a merged head and heart line, the positioning of which indicates a strong font of natural willpower based on emotions or gut instincts rather than on logic. It is near-certain (99%+) that H is resistant to imperiation, and there is a 93% chance that H is totally immune to imperiation if otherwise in good health and not afflicted by confusion-inducing mind magics or neurological hacks.`
  * `The merged head/heart line is significantly chained. There is a propensity to leap to conclusions and to hold beliefs very strongly, sometimes in the face of evidence to the contrary.`
  * `The fate line is totally broken by a triangle crease near the wrist. Intense chaining before the break indicates a life without much personal direction. If my Lord will forgive the colloquialism, palmists often refer to a chained fate line as “fish-hooks”, referring to an individual being ‘jerked around’ by circumstances like a fish on a hook. This contradicts the strong willpower indicated by the head/heart line and is therefore quite unusual. The triangle breakpoint indicates total disruption of the outside forces causing the fish-hooks, and these hooks vanish after the triangle is resolved. It is likely that whatever circumstances led to H’s stasis are represented by the triangle.`
  * `The fate line nevertheless loops at the end, indicating significant aftereffects and a universal life theme. The nature of this fate-loop and theme cannot be explicitly determined without access to the other palm and the living individual.`
  * `The sun line is barely visible near the base of the ring finger, but becomes quite deep near the wrist, where it is merged with the similarly prominant Páló line. This indicates important ripple effects caused by this individual’s actions in life, likely corresponding with the persistant fate-loop. Light informational scrying was unable to give any sense of the identities of people or institutions affected. However, a synchronicity between the most prominant percussive mark and a curve of the merged sun and Páló line indicates soul-bond compatibility with an unidentified individual, who is likely to be one of those so affected.`
  * `Percussive dotting near the base of the palm indicates a fore-influence of ambient space magic. Considering the time depth of the individual and current circumstances (such as we know) regarding H, this is nearly certain to indicate future space travel and exposure to astronomical leylines that has not yet occurred.`
  * `H lacks both a girdle of Vins and a M’aky’i line. This most likely manifests as some level of obliviousness on H’s part to their own emotions, or to the reasons for those emotions, and to difficulty communicating about them to others. H has difficulty lying directly to people and does not use manipulation as a social tactic.`



`In summary, H is an individual of strong beliefs and willpower, either resistant or immune to imperiation, who nevertheless did not experienced much chance for self-direction in their early life. This lack of self-direction may still be ongoing. They exhibit a karmic loop of unknown character and have or will have significantly impacted various individuals and institutions, one of whom is subject to a soul-bond with them and with whom they are likely to already have an established relationship dynamic. This relationship is 96% likely to continue to impact them and may be related to the karmic loop. H overwhelmingly focuses on emotions rather than on logic, but despite this is often not introspective on the meaning of their own or other’s emotions. H is not a good liar and is more likely to be truthful and blunt in speech.`

`Specific details justifying the above divinations are given in section 2. Less-confident divinations are described in section 3. Section 4 details speculations which cannot be given any confidence level without the availability of the other palm and/or the living individual. Section 5 is a justified request for a soulguard for more intense scrying, as well as goals for said attempt, if cleared.`

  


* * *

  


Isa was the fastest, racing immediately towards the bathroom. The twins jumped into gear only a moment afterwards, leaving Mahi to struggle to draw in enough breath to fortify herself. What if they’d been found? What if there was a soldier in there? (What if it was Vóldamórt himself?)

She found herself scrambling towards it, anyway, rather than away.

”Herí?” Isa was saying frantically to the door. “Are you okay? What happened?” As Mahi got closer, she heard his voice through the door, as if he hadn’t even heard them.

“No,” he mumbled, muffled, as if something were held against his mouth – but loud enough to be heard anyway, as if he were only barely preventing himself from yelling. “No, no, _no_ , no no no – ”

“He’s having another panic attack,” Mahi heard herself saying. She sounded very far away. “We have to make sure he can breathe – ”

Isa hauled open the door without fanfare. Herí was collapsed to his knees on the floor, tunicless, but fortunately still wearing pants. His back was turned partly towards them, and Mahi spared herself only a nanosecond to worry about the old scars across his lower back, and the knobbliness of his spine. These, though, were barely even noticeable past the black – no, she thought. Not black, as the image moving across his upper back and shoulder blades shimmered faintly, deeply green. Only very, very dark green, so dark it seemed black.

Herí choked in a breath when Issa went down next to him and put an arm around his waist. The image of the skull tattooed just below the nape of his neck flickered with some undefinable rune tooling that didn’t last long enough for its purpose to be divined. The skull’s jaw relaxed and closed a bit more – the snake coiling around Herí’s shoulder blades retracted a bit further inside its mouth, and finally stilled again, as Isa guided Herí’s lungs to work properly again.

Maybe that’s why we got away, Mahi thought dimly, as she stared at the national logo on Herí’s back.

  


* * *

  


Ládá.

Vóldamórt spun the globe again. It tilted, and the little lime-green scrying construct jumped off the surface and contorted in the air nearby, waiting for its focus object to finish moving. The little flickers and twists of its ley-matrix looked almost petulent, Vóldamórt imagined.

He watched with rapt attention as inertia slowed the globe to a halt. The scrying construct twisted itself inside-out, and he heard a small scraping noise at the edge of the range of his hearing. It latched back onto the surface of the globe, skittering over it tentatively, until it nestled into the lower half of B’itá Isle and crunched down into a thin disc of light, fixed right over the red paint that marked the latitude and longitude of the capital city.

Ládá again.

Vóldamórt spun the globe again. Then he did it again, and again.

Ládá. Ládá. Ládá.

Carefully, with reverence, Vóldamórt took the globe from its levitation line. For a moment it remained weightless, but then the full mass of it fell into his hands. The green light flickered and pulsed, but did not stray from its new home on top of the representation of his capital city.

His person was in Ládá. His person was _definitely_ alive, and _definitely_ unharmed, and _definitely_ in Ládá. He did not know with more detail where within the city his person was, nor was there currently much hope of narrowing it down without some soldiers losing their minds or souls in the process, but Tíll Sévai had delivered far more than Vóldamórt had charged em with.

He had not felt so happy without the aid of drugs in years.

The Dark Lord clutched the globe to his chest, closed his eyes, and _smiled_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> B'ám Istá is based on a manager I used to have. She was terrible for many reasons, but one of those reasons was her total allergy to people who were her direct reports talking to anybody who was higher 'ranked' than she was on the org chart. Somebody like that would absolutely have a heart attack if the literal CEO (or commander in chief, as it were) tried to talk to (say) small fry me directly, bypassing her in the process.
> 
> A disclaimer: I'm not militarily trained and I did not do extensive research on military terminology or etiquette for this story. It's mostly just common sense and a few vocab words I know, such as CO (Commanding Officer). B'itá is a fantasy country, anyway, so I feel justified in this.
> 
> Also if by any chance there are any actual palmists reading this story: I am not a palmist and I BLATANTLY made everything up based only on the wikipedia article about palmistry, with some inspiration taken from my own training with tarot reading (in which I do consider myself competent). Three guesses who Harry's soul-bond is with, first two don't count.


	10. Iannsa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _iannsa_ (n.) an unwillingness to act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The insomnia's hit me really hard, and I'm super tired. =-=
> 
> CW: Non-consensual body modification, discussed/thought about.

  


* * *

  


Harry sat in one of Samenta and Daumi’s comfy armchairs, a throw blanket wrapped tightly around his upper body, and mechanically spooned ice cream into his mouth. He’d rarely been able to have ice cream in his life up to this point, but still he thought the stuff of the future tasted a little bit differently than he’d expected. It was fluffier in a way he couldn’t quite place, leaving him uncertain of the words to use. It still tasted good, at least – sugary sweet and cold. It was still clearly ice cream.

The girls all sat in the room with him, picking at their own bowls or cones of ice cream with varying levels of aggression and interest. Mahi only took another gulp every two minutes or more, though somehow the stuff still didn’t melt. Daumi was on her second bowl of toffee-flavored sweet. Samenta was still on her first, sucking each bite slowly off the spoon. Issa had eaten so quickly at first that for a moment, Harry had almost mistaken her for Ron, but then abruptly she had ceased. Now she just sat there, stirring the few remaining bites of ice cream, and staring into the bowl as if it held the secrets of the universe.

The new tunic and pants actually fit him really well. It was strange to wear well-fitted clothing. Harry honestly couldn’t remember if he’d ever had any before. He must have – he’d been fitted for his Hogwarts uniforms every year, or at least, whenever too much of his ankle had finally poked out from below the hems. Yet none of that had ever quite felt as good as the clothing currently adorning his body.

He flexed his fingers, and looked again at his left hand. The skin on top was smooth and brown and unmarred, and he forced himself not to think about the _how_ – to not think about it much at all, in fact.

Harry stared down into his ice cream bowl and forced himself to assess his situation.

His name was Harry James Potter. He was alive. He was currently warm and feeling – not full, ice cream didn’t make him full, but he was too nauseous to eat anyway. He would probably be able to get food if he felt hungry later, as impossible as that sounded. He wasn’t thirsty and there was water in the kitchen if he needed it. He had taken a shower last night so he was clean. He had a place to sleep. He had clothes – he had three tunics and three pairs of pants, strangely fashioned though they were, and two pairs of shoes – boots and sandals.

So that was the basic necessities taken care of. What else was there?

His name was Harry James Potter. He was born in 1980 on July 31st. The current year was 3016 – he realized abruptly that he didn’t know the full date.

“What day is it?” he asked.

“May 7th,” Mahi said blandly.

Huh.

If Harry concentrated, he could almost imagine that he had only been asleep for six or seven months.

Okay. Well. He was Harry James Potter. He was born in 1980 on July 31st. The current date was 3016 May 7th, and not only did he have no idea how to do math that complex in his head, he absolutely didn’t want to know how long ago it had been, either. (Over _a thousand years_ – )

He bit down directly into a spoon of cold ice cream, and used the pain in his teeth to force himself to get over it. The last time he’d been awake he’d been 18 years old, so say for the sake of argument that he was 18 years old.

His name was Harry James Potter. He was 18 years old. The year was 3016. He was in a country called _B’itá_. He was in a city called _Ládá_. Ládá was the capital city of B’itá. Ládá had once been London. B’itá had once been magical Britain. The Statute of Secrecy wasn’t a thing anymore. B’itá was a dictatorship. B’itá was ruled by Voldemort.

His chest trembled. Harry forced himself to breathe through it.

B’itá was ruled by Voldemort. The people in B’itá spoke a language called Ilkis. Ilkis was sort of like English but also nothing at all like English. Harry sort of knew how to speak Ilkis but he wasn’t very good at it, and he clearly had an accent and a lack of fluency when he spoke. He was getting a little better, though.

Four people from B’itá were his friends, even though Voldemort ruled B’itá and definitely didn’t want Harry to have friends or allies. Issa, Mahi, Samenta, and Daumi were his friends – or allies. They would help him because they had also done ‘bad’ things – treasonous things, perhaps? – when they had freed Harry from the coffin where he had been drugged. Mahi was scared of dying and would rather nobody know she had done something treasonous. Samenta and Daumi wanted to pick Harry’s brains because he was their Family History Boy. Issa didn’t seem to care much about fear of Voldemort, and had also decided that Harry was her son, or something, which confused Harry but made his chest warm, too.

He could rely on them, at least.

Harry couldn’t be caught by Voldemort because Voldemort would drug him again, and this time Harry might never wake up. Harry would be caught by Voldemort if he couldn’t speak Ilkis without sounding odd, so he needed to be able to speak Ilkis without sounding odd. There might be some other things, too – the oracles were apparently something that all citizens of B’itá had, but Harry didn’t have one, obviously. He didn’t know how they would get around that.

What…

What was the point of anything?

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered to his ice cream.

  


* * *

  


_“When are you going to move?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“I said, when are you going to move?”_

_“I am moving.”_

_“No you’re not.”_

_“Yes I am, darling, look.”_

_“That doesn’t count! You’re just lying there.”_

_“…”_

_“You’ve been there for so long. I had to turn off the lamps because the sun came back! Stop looking at the weird ball, it’s hypnotising you.”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_“No you’re not! What is the ball even doing that’s so excellent?”_

_“It’s showing me where my human is. They’re in Ládá, darling, look.”_

_“You have so many humans though. Why is that one so special?”_

_“They just are.”_

_“But you don’t even know which human it is!”_

  


* * *

  


“It’s at least safe to say,” said Mahi abruptly, “that it isn’t tracking you.”

Harry slowly roused himself from his silence. The ice cream bowl was long since empty, and now merely sat uselessly in his lap. Rather like Harry himself, he thought morbidly.

“Whaddaya mean?” Samenta said.

“I mean,” Mahi said slowly, and with more deliberation than Harry had come to expect from her, “that it’s not tracking Harry. The logo. Tattoo. It’s not tracking him.”

Harry felt sick again, and couldn’t respond but to breathe.

He wasn’t thinking about it. He wasn’t thinking about it. He wasn’t thinking about the ink under his skin between his shoulder blades, wasn’t thinking about the way it itched ferociously now that he knew it was there and knew what shape it made. (A skull, a snake, the evillest symbol in the world – )

“Makes sense,” Issa was saying, almost as dully as Harry felt. “If it was tracking him we’d all be well fucked by now.”

A collective shudder ran through the room. Harry couldn’t keep from glancing warily towards the door, as if one of his nightmares were about to come true, and Voldemort was about to kick down the door in all his horrifying, Dark Lord – _Dálkót_ – glory.

Nothing happened.

“If it’s not doing that, then what is it, though?” Samenta asked.

It’s a mark, Harry didn’t say. They didn’t know, because they clearly didn’t understand the concept of a Dark Mark – to them, the Dark Mark was a single spaceship. (And hadn’t that particular children’s book shaken Harry to the core? Voldemort lived on a fucking _space ship_.) But all it meant for now was that they didn’t know what a Dark Mark really was. They didn’t understand the ownership implied by it, the inescapability – once Draco had taken it, Harry knew, his fate must have been sealed. As were all the other Death Eaters from the 1990s. As was Harry’s own fate sealed by –

He pressed a hand to his mouth as his stomach rolled.

For the first time since he had awakened, he wished that he had asked. Hadn’t Voldemort said – _Would you like to know what I have learned?_ And from Snape, of all people! Harry couldn’t grasp any reason for his drugging and imprisonment that made any logical sense at all. Voldemort wanted him dead – why drug him? Why not take advantage of Harry’s utter helplessness after being drugged to send an _Avada_ his way without any fear of it rebounding? Why package him in such exquisite robes and – and tattoo his Mark on Harry’s back – and place him in – _why?_

And what the fuck did _Snape_ have to do with it?! Why would Snape know anything relevant about Harry that would be enough to make Voldemort suddenly change his mind about everything? How did that make any fucking sense?!

Harry was an idiot. Why hadn’t he asked anything? Why hadn’t he accepted Voldemort’s offer of knowledge? At the time it had felt like just one more of Voldemort’s mind games, but… shouldn’t he have been able to tell? Shouldn’t he have wanted to know more about what made Voldemort tick, as knowledgeable as he already was on the topic? But he hadn’t, and now he was clueless.

There was no reason, absolutely none, for Voldemort’s abrupt change of heart. If it could even be called a ‘heart’.

  


* * *

  


Alisias woke up sharply at 05:30 B-LST on May 13th, 3016, and sat upright without so much as a yawn. She had built half an hour into her schedule before she officially went on shift – ten minutes to shower and dress, five to make her way to the cafeteria, ten to eat, and five more to reach the bridge so she could relieve her understudy. These activities did tend to run into one another at times, but it was the planning that counted. There had been no urgent alerts waiting for her upon her awakening, so she felt justified in proceeding without haste.

Ósóis was standing to the side of the Left Hand’s command hub on the bridge, staring out the main viewport. Eir head followed the glacial arc of the Pasiafk Skyhook, so that the back of eir hood appeared tilted when Alisias stepped into the cavernous room. Projected runic circles flickered and spun across the interior woodwork, and ward projections spun back and forth between the various pilots, spotters, and analysts who made up the bridge crew. Glancing across all the screens she could catch sight of, and the Left Hand’s hub in a bit more detail, she could not see anything unnerving. Therefore, she instead activated the silencer on her boots, and crept forward until she could tap Ósóis on the nape of eir neck, just above where the head of eir oracle was integrated with eir uniform.

The understudy turned as she approached, interrupting her before she could touch the other soldier. Alisias nodded approvingly.

“Hello, sir,” Ósóis said.

“Officer,” Alisias replied. “Tired?”

Her understudy did not move. “Only a bit, sir,” ey said.

“Of course,” she murmured. “I’m pleased with your improvement at detecting me.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the enby gamely. “Would you like my report verbally or textually?”

“Verbally, if you please.”

Ósóis’ rather bass-toned voice swam into Alisias’ ears as she tapped idly at the command hub. In sum total, nothing disturbing or unnerving had happened while she had slept. Routine orbital trajectory corrections, authorisation of regiment movements between cities, more resources directed to preventing the lockdown in Ládá from causing industrial freights to back up into residential districts…

Alisias frowned privately at that, once again thankful for the choice that had been made to include a mask with their uniform.

“What of our Lord?” she asked once Ósóis had finished.

“Our Lord, sir?” the officer repeated slowly.

She held back a huff. “Yes, Ósóis, our Lord.”

“Nothing, sir. He has not appeared nor passed down any orders that I have seen.”

“I see,” she said. “Very well, you are relieved. Go occupy yourself.”

“Thank you, sir,” she heard em murmur softly as ey passed out of the bridge.

Alisias was left with the command hub and the vast viewport. She took a moment to breathe and mentally prepare herself, watching the arc of the skyhook, and the even more distant and dark shape of one of the two solar fans, just barely visible as it rotated in the darkness just above the curve of Earth’s surface. A moment of idle curiosity saw her checking in on the energy output from the fan’s B’itái wing, but everything was proceeding as usual. Therefore she moved to the hub and sat back in the chair. There was a metallic click as her oracle bonded with the chair, and uncountable leys buzzed over her vision like a spiderweb before resolving into meaningful sensations.

She spent some time on the basic tasks involved with maintaining a country and a warship with efficiency that had long since become automatic. As she tapped and swiped and approved and denied, she thought.

No sign of the Dálkót. Admittedly, Vóldamórt was never _particularly_ present. Alisias could only presume he worked on items of long-term importance, more comprehensible to the immortal that he was than to any of them, during those times when there was nothing unusual going on. Since the incident of theft on April 28th, he had been far more present – quite reasonably given the audacity that was a theft directly from his person. Alisias still burned with indignant fury on her Lord’s behalf to even think of it. He had of course been a constant presence on the bridge or in the warpways during the immediate aftermath, flitting across all manner of departments, casting orders about and personally cruciating the team who had failed to catch the thieves at the site despite having visual of them, making use of the apparition deck without nearly as much warning or documentation as he normally would.

She still felt foolish for not even considering the order the capture of a handprint from the watchers that had allowed the unknown ‘H’ into Ládá. In fact, she had barely even recalled the existence of palmistry until her Lord had recquisitioned Cadet Sévai for a special report on the matter. When, during the initial investigation, ‘H’ had revealed no registry information on file in the census department, she had simply presumed a dead end.

The Left Hand consoled herself with the thought that Vóldamórt was her Lord – was Lord of them all – for a very good reason.

And yet…

As she approved a request for SpecOps to dispatch a team to investigate a recurrent ward disturbance near Kákórdi, she thought.

Cadet Sévai’s divinatory theory had proven to be sound. Alisias was quite familiar with it by now, having been present for the enby’s rehearsals in order to prevent some kind of upset when ey finally presented to their Lord, and having kept a similarly close eye on the official presentation of the report, and the building of the auto-scryer – pitifully generalized as it was – that nevertheless still managed to provide far more information on H’s location than any other attempt. She had personally delivered the construct and its attached globe to her Lord two days ago.

And then he had vanished.

It was starting to worry her.

The whole point of a lockdown on the capital city had initially been for the sole purpose of keeping the thieves out, so that they might be more easily located. Then H had had to go and let them in, and the purpose had shifted to keeping H, and ideally the thieves, inside the one city. Yet now with that scryer, there was surely no longer as much need to continue blocking a significant portion of the economy’s traffic? If it had been Alisias, she would have lifted the lockdown the moment that scryer had been placed in her hands and confirmed to be in working order – but that was somewhat treasonous to think, and behind her mask, she bit herself harshly on the lip.

She ought not to presume to know better than her Lord – but she had hoped…

Surely there was no longer the need for a lockdown?

After some consideration, she tagged a small query onto the end of her morning report to Lord Vóldamórt, and tried to put the issue from her mind. The rest of the morning passed without a reply. She spent it reviewing her current initiatives, for the most part, until a tiny, idiotic Hánsæ space-hopper drifted inside the Mark’s contiguous zone. It was almost certainly a civilian vessel, Alisias thought with despair, and for some insufferable reason the pilot clearly wasn’t looking at their ship’s ley-runes. She ordered a warning shot to be taken, which had the intended effect of scaring the thing so much it did a barrell-roll to get away from the warship.

“Foreign idiots,” she distantly heard one of the bridge crew muttering, and she suppressed an amused smile as she packaged up a small incident report and sent it wind-ward for representatives on the KIY station to pick up – merely in the spirit of international amicability. The neutral KIY staffers wouldn’t care, of course, but hopefully Hánsæ itself wouldn’t raise any sort of fuss either. Her Mend’ian wasn’t as good as it should be, and neither of the current Paramounts spoke Ilkis as well as the previous two. They might have to resort to using Ádónizá as a charade language again.

Unwilling to deal with the possibility right now, Alisias stood up and took a surprise field trip to Hydroponics to check that the illicit trend in personal henk cultivation hadn’t crept back into the corners there. (It hadn’t, but the main culprit from the last purge experienced a guilty heart-rate spike when she emerged in the operations room.)

There was a begrudging acknowledgement from Paramount Trùc when she returned, and she filed the matter away and considered it closed. It was time for her afternoon report, but there was still no reply from her Lord to her morning query.

In all technicality, she shouldn’t be pressing the issue at all. But he hadn’t even marked the report as ‘Read’, so after some more soul-searching, Alisias felt comfortable enough with the rather low likelihood of being cruciated to add a direct briefing request to the report. Her Lord’s oracle would alert him to it, even if he had it turned to silent for some reason. She felt a tad guilty the moment she did, but neither could she bring herself to take it out.

Perhaps she was overstepping. Perhaps her Lord was fully aware, and was intentionally upholding the lockdown for longer than she could see was needed. Surely he had information she did not? He was, after all, the Dálkót.

Yet in the end, she left the request for a briefing. Not anything which might imply that she questioned her Lord’s actions – merely a briefing, which was even justifiable in that none had been held once Sévai’s insights had seen the scrying construct delivered to her Lord’s hands. It was entirely within her rights and duties to request a meeting, while it was similarly entirely within her Lord’s rights to deny her request. And if he did, she told herself, thereafter she would no longer question him.

Question him. She scoffed silently to herself behind her mask as she swiped in a circle to send. Perish the thought.

For three hours, there was no reply to her request. Then, merely forty minutes before she was due to retire from her shift, her oracle gave off a slight electric tingle, and a one-way LNS opened up in the back of her mind.

`[Dálkót // Briefing location key w4v4bly ETA 10 minutes hence. Be prompt.]`

There was no other message, but Alisias hadn’t expected any. She quickly began to shut down any critical processes that couldn’t run without human oversight, and took her leave of the bridge. The reminder to ‘be prompt’ was a little superfluous – she couldn’t remember a moment since her time as a trainee when she had ever been late to anything – but Alisias was pleased enough to have been granted her request that she did not bother to take any sort of offense.

She pressed the location key into the warpway’s rune matrix, and allowed it to spin her around until she had something solid back under her feet. It was the same room that Sévai had given eir final presenation in – the projector was still distended from the wall, and some of the chairs had not been docked back into the floor. Alisias frowned at that, and moved to slot the machine back.

No sooner had she initiated the retraction sequence when there was a faint thud of footsteps from the entryway behind her. She turned and knelt, bending her head respectfully. “My Lord,” she said.

Vóldamórt blinked down at her for a moment. His dark red eyes caught a flare of light from one of the distant spaceships visible through the viewport, and flashed bright scarlet for a moment. Alisias could not help noting that he wore the same deep gray and pewter-threaded robe he had worn two days ago while receiving Sévai’s findings. Then again, she thought he might have been wearing it the day they had received notice of the break-in and theft, so perhaps he was merely using it as his uniform throughout the aftereffects of the incident.

He nodded faintly at her. “Alisias,” he said, striding smoothly forwards. There was no sign of his snake companion following him, which Alisias found somewhat relieving. That cobra was massive, and she still wasn’t certain it was as docile as it always seemed to be.

Slowly and deliberately, her Lord grasped the back of one of the stray chairs and pushed it down into the floor. “You may stand if you so desire.”

“As you will, my Lord,” she said, rising stiffly, though she kept her head at a respectful angle. Her hands she clasped behind her back. He was still pushing chairs back into the floor, his magic catching the ones which were not in his reach.

“ _Mac bet’a_ ,” he said flatly – and incomprehensibly, in the language she had always suspected to be Ancient English – as he looked around the cleaned-up meeting room. The single braid fastened at the nape of his neck threatened to slip over a shoulder as he turned his head, but behaved itself. “Well, Alisias, what do you wish to know? I do not have time for extensive overviews, the KIY Summit is in a month.”

Of course it was. Alisias should have remembered that – she cursed herself silently, but did not let any of that come through in her tone.

“I merely wished to seek any further and necessary information regarding the lockdown in Ládá, my Lord,” she began. “The current projections show a possibility of industrial traffic backing up into residential or consumer districts unless either the manufacturing districts totally cut off or drastically reduce their tooling capacity, or unless the warehouses are approved for dramatic spatial expansion to contain the excess. I would like to run a cost-benefit analysis on these options in comparison, but I find myself uncertain as to what benefits may be relevant regarding the lockdown itself, now that Cadet Sévai’s work has produced a scryer… and,” she continued, fighting the urge to hold her breath. Vóldamórt’s face had remained impassive and blank throughout her short speech. “I wished to ask you which task you would prefer we focus on, my Lord – the location and arrest of the thieves, or the location and recovery of H?”

Vóldamórt finally did blink at that.

“H,” he said immediately. “H ought to have a far higher priority than the thieves. Finding them shall allow me to locate such miscreants, anyway – the thieves are practically irrelevant for now.” He waved a hand idly in the air, rings glinting. “Did I not inform you of this after Sévai’s astral projection, Alisias?”

He definitely had not.

“I do not recall hearing anything of the sort, my Lord,” she said as diplomatically as she could manage. “I apologize profusely if I misheard something, but to the best of my perceptions, you left once we had confirmed success without passing on any further orders for me.”

“Hmm,” he hummed. His gaze caught a distant freight ship out the viewport and followed it for a moment, one hand curling under his chin. Fortunately, he didn’t seem irritated with her. “Well, I am informing you now. Forget about the thieves, H is more important, and must be located as quickly as possible.”

“Of course, my Lord,” she said. “With this in mind, my Lord, may I… _respectfully_ … suggest the lifting of the lockdown?”

The look that the Dálkót sent her was the same one that Alisias had privately nicknamed as his ‘I did not just hear that’ look. She allowed herself to grimace.

“Explain,” he said sharply.

Great magic, this had better not break her cruciation-free service record.

“Presuming, my Lord, that the lockdown does not serve a greater purpose of which I am unaware…” She kept one eye on his face as she spoke, careful to modulate her words so that it did not sound as though she were in any way presuming to know better than him. “You originally activated it in order to prevent the thieves from re-entering the city, which would allow us to more easily locate them with patrols.” No sign of discontent so far. “When H was shown to possess clearance, the purpose instead shifted to preventing both H and the thieves from leaving the city. However, as you have yourself indicated, H is more the priority than the thieves, and of course we accede to your wishes, my Lord,” she added. Hopefully the verbal prostration would work to minimize any violent impulses going through her Lord’s mind. “Now that we have that scryer, even should H seek to leave Ládá at any point, the scryer shall alert us and point us to the new city of focus. Given this, then, we no longer have the need to make use of a lockdown to maintain awareness of H’s location… again, insofar as I am aware, my Lord.”

She fell silent, and watched Vóldamórt intently. He had turned away from her as she spoke, staring out the viewport at the passing space traffic on its way to the asteroid belt – or perhaps to Máz, at that angle. Alisias could not be bothered to fact-check herself right now, and only waited for whatever his reply would be.

He was silent for a while, so long that Alisias almost gave in to nervous fidgeting. But finally he spoke.

“I see your point,” he said slowly. “Do tell me, Alisias, how far _has_ the industrial traffic backed up?”

Alisias pulled up the information as quickly as she could. “Approximately 96% of the industrial district’s lane space has been blocked off in rather tetris-like manner, my Lord” she told him. “The toolers have been ordered to reduce their output since the beginning of the lockdown, but barring total shutdown, we will most likely reach 100% saturation either tonight or sometime tomorrow.”

She couldn’t see whatever expression he was making, but his fingers twitched.

“Very well,” he said finally. “Lift the lockdown. Tell the manufacturers to continue at reduced production levels until the lanes are at only 40% saturation or less, and send one or two extra regiments to staff the apports. Was there not a motion to add funding for an additional circle to the T’és Apport some years back?”

“There was, my Lord.”

“Appropriate the necessary labor and raw materials and see it completed. If Governor T’én floos you, feel free to ignore her.”

“It will be done immediately, my Lord,” Alisias said.

“Do iterate the lifting. Soldiers are allowed free movement, as is industrial freight. Civilians without pressing reasons are to be kept from movement until 40% saturation is attained in the industrial districts – only urgency three and below should be allowed to use an inter-city circle. If they’re trying to go to another country on visa then for pity’s sake don’t let them. In fact – just close all the borders for the time being and recall all currently active visa-holders,” he said derisively. “I don’t want my citizens running off all over the globe right now.”

Ah. An expanded lockdown. Well, Alisias thought, the international borders were already quite sealed. It would barely mean anything to anybody, unlike the sudden quarantine of the capital city from the rest of them. She compiled the list of orders quickly into one document while she waited for him to say anything more, but Vóldamórt remained silent and pensive, staring out into the mess of activity that was geostationary orbit.

“Is there anything else which you desire to be done, my Lord?” she asked, after about two minutes of silence had passed.

“Pass the note along to the regiment working directly for Governor T’én that they are not to allow her to leave the city, as I am…” He paused, somewhat dramatically. “Altogether displeased with her conduct.”

Oh goodness. Alisias would have to attend an appointment ceremony soon, at the rate that T’én was burning through whatever allotment of her Lord’s goodwill she had been granted. “I will let them know, my Lord. A list of alternative candidates will be prepared within 48 hours.”

“Ah, Alisias, I do enjoy how facile you are with my hidden meanings.”

The sting of pure relief coursed down Alisias’ spine. If her Lord was feeling generous enough to make something even approximating a joke, then she was perfectly safe from cruciation after all. Not that he ever joked, of course. Comments such as his most recent were the closest he ever got to such a thing as a sense of humor.

“There will be nothing else of note,” he was saying. She hurried her brain along to ensure she kept up with him. “Send a form letter to the other KIY members informing them of our closed borders, if you would, but don’t reply to any inquiries. I’ll deal with the inevitable whining when I attend the Summit.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“Don’t disturb me again unless it is a matter of national emergency or something I told you to report on. I have things to do.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

It was a good day, all told.

  


* * *

  


He had been tattooed against his will, dressed in fancy robes like some twisted sort of doll, and somehow all his scars had been healed to nothingness save the lightning bolt on his head, and a few silvery belt-marks across his lower back. No more basilisk fang-mark. No more ragged forearm gash. No more _I must not tell lies_.

Harry forced himself to look again at the mirror, and the sickly black Dark Mark gaped back at him. A cold vise twisted around his heart and lungs, and he breathed only raggedly. It was better, though, than not breathing at all, as he had when he had first caught sight of it.

Harry looked away again, and forced himself to breathe. He pulled the tunic that Samenta had indicated ought to be for sleeping over his head, and for lack of anything better to do, he cracked open the makeup set that Mahi and Issa had handed to him along with his clothes and toiletries. He still didn’t really understand why they had gotten it for him, beyond the indication that everyone owned makeup in the future. Did that mean Voldemort owned makeup? Used it? He was torn between crying and laughing at the thought, as removed from reality as it was.

Or maybe Voldemort was still like Harry was, a sort of living fossil. The population didn’t know what Voldemort looked like, so he could certainly have gotten away with it.

Harry himself had no idea what any of this was supposed to be.

He fiddled with the bottle of brown cream for a moment, and felt the brushes. They were soft, but he felt stymied as to their use. The compact mirror was the only useful thing Harry could see, and he slipped it out and pocketed it, remembering with strange distance the fear of bright yellow eyes around stone corners, or looming out of the darkness in an abandoned bathroom.

Maybe now he was to be the basilisk, moving about in the plumbing of Ládá’s underbelly, until –

Until what?

Until Voldemort was miraculously on the ground and within Harry’s reach? As if he did not still likely have at least one horcrux, and probably had more, considering that he was now over 1000 years old, and people just didn’t get that old without cheating somehow.

They could be anywhere. B’itá covered a signicant portion of two of seven continents, and in the interim, while Harry had been asleep, humanity had spread into space. There were cities on Mars and Venus, there were mining colonies and space stations all over the asteroid belt, there were partially-inhabited scientific bases on the moons of Jupiter and of Saturn, and there was something called an orbital ring, if half-finished, where (apparently) significant portions of the other four major nations on Earth lived, B’itá being the fifth and the only one that had not moved dramatically spacewards. Voldemort could have blasted one of his horcruxes into space, sent it out of the solar system, totally unrecoverable forever.

And here was he. Harry Potter. Nothing that he knew was relevant any more, and Voldemort had had centuries – a millennia – to shore up his immortality. He had a whole army, not just a terrorist group. They had magic Harry thought that even Hermione might have had trouble comprehending, and even could he have understood it, Harry didn’t have his wand.

Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror, and beyond his hollow cheeks and the bags beneath his eyes, he felt smaller than he had since the day Uncle Vernon had denied him his first Hogwarts letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like, not a lot of action... but I thought it was necessary to check in on each character's state of mind before moving on.
> 
> Advance warning that the next chapter will be a bit depressing, as Harry starts to really feel the time depth.


	11. K'ivá

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _k'ivá_ (n.) the act of grieving.
> 
> See also _k'iv_ (v.), to grieve; and _k'if_ (n.), the abstract or philosophical concept of grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for the past few chapters, Harry's POV has been giving me issues. And then, over the course of one day, this spilled out of me in a wave.
> 
> Happy quick update?

  


* * *

  


Harry woke up the next morning, and stared at the ceiling for a while. He hadn’t had any nightmares, which should have been a triumph. Nightmares had been haunting his every attempt to sleep since he had awoken from the coma, and he would have expected, with the revelation of the tattoo, that he would have had a particularly vivid one. Yet he had had none. He wanted to rejoice, but he didn’t feel excited about it at all. The sun was bright and warm as it shone through the window and across the lower half of the pulled-out couch, strange for such a miserable day. Not that there was any particular cause for it to be miserable. Not that Harry had any reason to be _upset_ about anything. He was only missing any kind of purpose or goal.

Any at all.

He sat up, because he was hungry, and for not much other reason. The only nice thing about the future was that they still used the same numbers as Harry was familiar with, so he could read the shimmering numbers that the strange, recurved ceramic plaque on the wall projected – he supposed it was a clock? – when he held a hand just above it for a second or so. 05:40, it said.

Harry wasn’t certain whether to ascribe his early awakening habits to a nature instilled by Aunt Petunia’s constant rapping on the cupboard, or to his own more current fear of nightmares. He didn’t know which option he preferred, so he didn’t decide on a cause, and instead moved into the kitchen. Samenta and Daumi weren’t awake yet – they didn’t usually wake up until around 07:00. Issa and Mahi were off to wherever they lived and slept, and he wasn’t sure if they’d be around today at all. For now, at least, it was just Harry.

He took a few slices of bread from the breadbox, which he was now fairly certain read _B’éd_ – what they’d had to do to cursive to depict the apostrophes and the strange letter-lines of Ilkis made Harry’s eyes water a little. He was reasonably certain, though, that _B’éd_ meant ‘bread’, which would of course make sense. The slices went into the oven to be toasted, and Harry took a small pot and a couple of eggs from the cold cupboard, and set them on top of the stove to boil.

Then, with nothing better to do, he stood and watched.

Why didn’t anything make sense?

Voldemort didn’t have a reason to stop trying to kill Harry. The rest of the world didn’t have any excuse not to step in and stop Voldemort from taking over Europe and the USA. Harry had sometimes thought, when they hadn’t been able to leave a safehouse for a few days because there were Death Eaters or Snatchers obviously about, that Voldemort wouldn’t last. Even if Harry died, surely somebody would say ‘no’? Surely somebody outside of Britain, somebody as magically powerful as Albus Dumbledore, could have stepped in and said ‘enough’? He had always thought so. It had made things seem alright.

This wasn’t alright at all.

The diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, probably the diadem, Nagini. The diary was long destroyed – Harry had done it himself, gotten ink all over his hands. The ring was long gone too, by Dumbledore’s hand instead of Harry’s. The locket had been killed by Ron. The cup…

They’d never managed to work out where the cup was, exactly. The diadem was even more of a mystery. Nagini was obviously always with Voldemort, but that just made trying to get near her a suicide mission. And even if they’d gotten the snake alone, without Voldemort nearby, she was still a twelve foot long king cobra in her own right. You didn’t really want to get bitten by that.

So that was three. But with over a thousand intervening years, what time hadn’t Voldemort had to make more? What time hadn’t he had to lay his hands on artifacts that Harry had no idea existed, that he couldn’t investigate by tracking down memories, because it was entirely possible that nobody who knew anything was even still alive? It could have been centuries ago! Voldemort could have put a horcrux on the moon. Voldemort could have put a horcrux into orbit around the sun somewhere between the planets. How could you find an ancient artifact that held a piece of a Dark Lord’s soul when it was likely not much larger than Harry’s chest, if that, and when it floated in space, where there was no light, constantly moving, because that was how orbits worked? Harry could fly a broom, sure, but he couldn’t fly a spaceship. He didn’t even know how those worked. Was it like piloting an airplane? He felt it was probably a lot more complicated, and he didn’t even know how to pilot an airplane, either. How would he even begin to get his hands on a spaceship? As far as everyone in the future was concerned – except for Voldemort, maybe – Harry Potter didn’t even exist.

He owned three tunics, three pairs of pants, a pair of boots, a pair of sandals, shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. And a compact mirror. And a makeup kit, technically, not that he intended to make much use of that. Maybe he could throw it at Voldemort during a critical moment and distract the Dark Lord with the ridiculousness of it all.

He cracked the boiled eggs with a surge of pointless anger. At himself, at Voldemort, at the whole world around him that just let Voldemort run freely around pretending B’itá was a normal country. At the entire situation.

There could be horcruxes anywhere and Voldemort lived on a spaceship and Harry was stuck on the ground and didn’t legally exist anywhere. The enormity of it, when he tried to really think, was unbearable. Horcruxes in space. Horcruxes on the moon. Horcruxes he had no way of knowing about – horcruxes that could be anything, anything at all. And even if he somehow found all of those, there was still Nagini, and she was always with Voldemort, and Voldemort lived on a bloody spaceship, and Harry was stuck on the ground and didn’t legally exist and didn’t have his wand!

Darkness roiled threateningly in the corner of his vision. Harry forced himself to breathe through the panic attack – he thought that was what Issa had called them – and slowly sat down with his eggs and toast, feeling light-headed.

He didn’t know what to do.

It felt disproportionately like the Dursleys. Not that Samenta and Daumi were anywhere near as terrible as the Dursleys were. It felt more like living at the Burrow, Harry thought, at least inside the flat. It was a bit like the Dursleys had expanded to become the whole world, and now the flat was Harry’s cupboard – the safe, dark place where the scary outside world couldn’t get him.

He’d – forgotten, what all that felt like. Hogwarts had become the new safe place after his first year, and he’d barely thought to mention his cupboard after that, especially once he clearly grew too big for it. But right now he was remembering, oddly keenly, just how he’d felt every night when he’d been sent to his cupboard. The relief he felt when the door closed and everything from outside was muffled. The trepidation he felt whenever he woke up in the morning and had to wait for the rapping and the “Get up!” to herald the loss of his safe space for another twelve or thirteen hours. And the cupboard had always been the only place to feel safe in – where else had Harry ever gone? School? Dudley’s gang had seen to it that nobody wanted to be near Harry, and the Dursleys telling lies about him had really just made Harry interested in nothing but getting through each day without anything terribly scandalous happening that his teachers could blame on him. He’d always looked forwards to going back into his cupboard. Sometimes he remembered wishing he didn’t have to eat or use the bathroom, so he could stay inside all the time.

Merlin, why hadn’t he remembered this all before? Though it felt fresh and recent, it didn’t feel like new information – he hadn’t forgotten it at all. He’d just…

Just what? Forgotten to think about it?

He wasn’t sure.

But he couldn’t just stay here forever. The flat wasn’t only Harry’s the way his cupboard had been only his. The flat was technically Samenta and Daumi’s, and they were just letting him stay there. Harry would need to be able to leave it at some point.

He tried to think again about his life before Hogwarts and magic, as he crunched on the bland but warm toast, and wondered. Had he ever had anything he wanted to do, besides staying away from the Dursleys? Harry couldn’t remember any inkling of such desires. All he’d ever wanted was to stay in his cupboard as much as possible. He hadn’t even been able to imagine a world where he wasn’t with them. Obviously he would have needed to move out at 18, if for some reason he hadn’t had magic, if magic hadn’t been real – and then…

Then what?

His eleven-year-old self had wanted magic because – because a boarding school would mean no Dursleys, he remembered. And because being magic was so fantastic, it had all seemed like a fever dream that Harry had been sure he would wake up from, and he had wanted to live it for as long as possible before he had to go back to Dursley-reality. But then Voldemort.

He… hadn’t really imagined that Voldemort would ever go away, either.

Then what?

If he had no chance of finding horcruxes… if Voldemort was impossible to reach, and too dangerous to try to draw out…

Harry didn’t know what the answer was.

He washed his dishes and put everything away. Then he went to the sitting room and laid back down on the couch, for lack of anything better to do. Later, he got up to eat a snack in the mid-afternoon, and to take a quick shower. Daumi asked a few times if he had run out of books, but stopped when Harry made it clear that he wasn’t interested in doing much of anything right now.

Sometime in the evening, Samenta wandered in.

“Harry, will you mind if I watch _wæfæ_?”

Harry blinked. For a long, slightly terrifying moment, he felt apart from himself, and unable to force his mouth to reply. But finally he remembered how the human body worked, and he shifted his gaze from the ceiling to the girl.

“Watch… wæfæ?” he repeated carefully, trying to remember Daumi’s instruction lessons about Ilkis pronunciation. “I don’t know what ‘wæfæ’ is.”

“Oh,” she said. “I thought…” A frown worked its way across her face. “Well, here, I’ll show you.”

She waved a hand at a strange little black hemisphere that sat on top of a bookshelf. Harry had barely noticed it before now, but he quickly paid much more attention when a ring of white lights blinked on around its base. They dimmed and brightened, gentle and wavelike, and a shimmering screen appeared. It was like the numbers that appeared to help tell the time, or like the smaller screen in the kitchen that projected the Dark Mark constantly.

Harry had tried to turn that one off, the first day, only to be told that it wasn’t under their control at all, and would probably be on until the lockdown of the city ended. Which was really just the cherry on top of the cheesecake of horror that Harry was slowly building up in regards to the future, and to B’itá especially.

This screen, thankfully, had no Dark Mark. It looked a bit like a tapestry, almost, or some kind of geometric design – a spiderweb, maybe. There were little gem-like balls in it that hadn’t been there before, so that Harry felt comfortable imagining that they were just illusions, though they seemed real. Each gem had some text by it, and there were a few fake book-cases to the side of the main screen, too.

He stood, ignoring the lightheadedness that tried to attack him after lying down for most of the day, and wandered closer.

“This is a wæfæ interface,” Samenta was saying. Her hand spun through the little blue lines of light, poking a couple of the gemstones until they spilled shimmering letters into the air.

“I’m still not sure what wæfæ is,” Harry told her.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she said shortly. “It’s like… um.” She poked a bright golden-brown gemstone, sticking two fingertips directly into the illusion, and the entire projection spun and spread before them, into a different sort of shape. “That one I just pressed was for discords and comms. So, these are all the discords and comms that Daumi and I subscribe to.”

“… Discords and comms,” Harry repeated slowly. Samenta nodded. “What do those do?”

“Well, discords are just – you talk to people for fun,” she said. “Sometimes they have themes. Like this one is just for talking about a book series I like. It’s a good way to meet people.” She gestured to a rounded green-and-black snail shell with some text written below it – _Rívásekál - SPOLLS_ , Harry read, unsure of what each word meant. His recent intuitions were trying to tell him that _spolls_ might mean ‘spoils’. Samenta gestured to another illusion-image, this one a little brown cardboard box with some moss on it, and Harry was distracted. “This one is the relic diver’s guild. That’s a comm, not a discord, and obviously Daumi and I are members of that because that’s our job.”

“Your job?” Harry repeated. “I thought it was just for fun? How old are you?”

“17 – wait.” Samenta did a very small double take. “No, we’re 18 now! _Ómælót_.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Er – happy birthday? When was it?”

“April 28th,” she said. “The day we found you, actually…”

Harry didn’t say anything to that. He watched in silence as Samenta picked through the icons, and then as she returned to the original screen with the gemstones. She picked a bright purple one, and an array of – were those CDs? Did they even still have CDs? – swirled into the air, text curling around and off of each one.

“These are all shows,” Samenta said. “I was going to watch _Nurín’e_. That doesn’t mean anything,” she added, apparently noticing Harry’s bewildered face. “It’s just the name of the asteroid the show takes place on. It’s not a real asteroid, though.”

“… You mean, this is like television?” Harry said slowly. The thought called to mind an image of Dudley, rotund and clutching a pint of ice cream, staring dimly at a flickering screen of explosions as he watched _Die Hard_ , at an age probably far too young to be watching something like that.

“Televizon?” Samenta repeated with a slight accent.

“That’s what it was called in the 1990s when you watched, uh… imaginary stories on screens?”

“Oh, you did have wæfæ back then, then!” Samenta nodded happily. Harry didn’t bother to tell her that they’d only had shows and movies, not – whatever else the rest of those gemstones did. He shrugged instead as she went on. “What did you like to watch?”

“I… didn’t,” Harry said slowly. “I never had time to watch at – er – my aunt and uncle’s house. And at Hogwarts back then, magic didn’t work with technology. So there was never an opportunity.”

“Oh, well…” She fiddled with the bun that her hair was pulled up into, making it even looser than it had been. A few locks fell out. “What about what kinds of stories you like to read?”

“I,” Harry said.

He hadn’t really ever read. Had he?

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I didn’t have time to read much, either.”

Samenta gaped at him. “You don’t mean you just worked all day?”

“Usually, yeah,” Harry said, thinking again of the Dursleys and Aunt Petunia’s seemingly endless lists of chores. “Or I was a bit busy trying to figure out which people were trying to kill me that year. It’s always something,” he said wryly, trying to make a feeble sort of joke out of it.

Samenta wasn’t laughing. She just looked horrified, and it made Harry uncomfortable.

“Er,” he said. “Look. It’s not important. Just watch what you wanted to watch and I’ll figure it out eventually, yeah?”

“What if you end up liking it, though?” she said seriously. “Then you’ll have seen a bunch of _spolls_.”

“… Spolls,” Harry repeated, indicating with a raised eyebrow that he didn’t exactly know what that meant.

“Oh, uhh,” she said. “Umm. Like. Endings. It’s the third sub-story,” she said, as if he knew what that was, too. “But they talk about the endings to the other two, too, and what happened. A _spoll_ would be a fact about what happened.”

“Right,” said Harry, still feeling uncertain. “I probably won’t mind. Besides, I might not understand all of what they’re saying. You can start wherever you want.”

But she was shaking her head. “No, I couldn’t. Here,” she tilted the entire shimmering screen towards Harry, so that the CD-esque icons danced in his vision. “You pick one that looks interesting to you. I can read the summaries aloud if you get stuck.”

Harry regarded the illusory icons with trepidation. “I can just… touch it?” he said. “It doesn’t matter that I don’t have an oracle or anything?”

“Yeah, of course. We don’t have _sakti_ turned on, so it works for any human touch.”

“Right, obviously,” muttered Harry. “How could I not have known that…”

He shook himself, and hesitantly reached out. Samenta looked approving out of the corner of his eye, so he allowed his hand to sink into the pale blue webbing between the icons. The light that washed over his skin felt strangely cool, as if he had stuck his hand into water, and there was a faint resistance that grew as he pressed deeper – as if he were touching something real, not just light. A few pale blue honeycombs formed around his fingers, nipping at his skin in a way that reminded him of the fish in the Black Lake that had tried to nibble at him harmlessly during the Second Task.

“Um,” Samenta said. She sounded alarmed. “Harry?”

Harry looked to see her staring at the upper part of the screen. A new shimmering bar of black and green had appeared, text pulsing gently on it in time with the motion of the lights on the actual black hemisphere. _Átennkít apk’íd_ , it said. Harry squinted at it, sounding out the letters in his mind, and emerged with the sense that it was saying ‘Authenticate upgrade’.

“What’s that about?” he asked, gesturing at it with his free hand.

Samenta was gaping at it. “Um, um…” With a whirl of loose hair, she turned towards the hallway that led deeper into the flat. “Daumi?” she called. “Did you _kyu_ – ” queue, he translated for himself “ – a media upgrade for the wæfæ?”

“What?” came Daumi’s voice from deeper in the flat. She poked her head out of the hallway, a couple necklaces swinging off her neck. She was wearing a sleeveless top, so that Harry could see how many freckles there were on her shoulders.

She stared at the screen for a long moment. “… That’s not mine.”

Samenta turned to squint at Harry. Daumi came over too, and reached up to pull the strange bar down – the CD icons moved aside as she did so, so fluidly that they almost seemed like fish in their own right. It made an irritated-sounding hum at her as she prodded at it, but did nothing else.

“It came up when Harry touched the screen,” Samenta said. “How does he have a media package, though? It doesn’t make any sense, he’s from _1998_.”

Daumi didn’t say anything for a moment. Harry focused on watching her examine the strange bar, because he didn’t at all want to think about the depth of passing time again.

“… Maybe…” Daumi said slowly. She glanced at Harry. “Wanna try touching it?”

Harry thought for a moment. He didn’t know what it would do, but then again, nothing ever happened without somebody to prod it. “Sure,” he shrugged, and reached out again to tap a hand on the mystery bar.

All the icons vanished into so much smoke. The bar swirled, becoming less a bar and more a rounded shape – oh for Merlin’s _fucking_ sake.

A Dark Mark congealed in the screen, like some twisted _Morsmordre_ that was capable of being cast on muggle television, even though Harry knew that wasn’t it at all. He stared stiffly at it, ready to move, barely conscious of the muffled yelps of the twins, and the way they immediately leapt to hold each other – and leapt out of striking range of the snake. He couldn’t bear to move, though, without taking his eyes off the thing.

It wasn’t any particular species of snake, so far as he could tell. It was still just an illusion, in all likelihood. But it looked so solid and real. If Harry only reached out, he felt he might stroke its scales.

The snake slid smoothly and gracefully from the skull. Inside of its eye sockets, Harry could see coils writhing indistinct in the shadows, without a sense of beginning or end, and no sign of a tail. A bright red tongue flickered out, and its head pointed towards Harry, lifting up until it had made eye contact with him in a manner almost humanlike.

Then the strangest thing happened.

“ _Shaslu_ ,” it hissed, and Harry heard unfamiliar sounds and sighs that nevertheless felt all too familiar. ‘Speak’, he knew, was what _shaslu_ meant. But he wasn’t hearing it as English. He heard it as _shaslu_ , and not as ‘speak’ as he thought he once might have, but he knew what _shaslu_ might mean in English – he remembered little hisses and sighs falling from his own lips, he remembered _shaslu agho’e, sraihi_ , speak to me, slither-in, and –

It was unnerving to hear foreign sounds spill from your throat, and to know that you’d said them before, when at the time they’d sounded only of English. That you knew exactly what they meant, even though everything was out of order and strangely placed, and the concepts of humanity were far removed from any word you might have reached for.

“ _Otse,_ ” Harry heard himself hissing back. ‘Hello’. How had he known that otse meant hello? Yet the more he thought the more he knew – the more he realized how strange it had been to speak with Voldemort in Parseltongue for that short moment right before he fell deathly asleep, things that Harry had been hearing as English when they weren’t saying anything English-like at all.

What had that sounded like to Voldemort, Harry wondered? Did Voldemort hear English too? Or did Voldemort hear – _ari, ari, agho ari tsiqisa’oghi la – ‘No, no, I won’t drink it!’_

He forced himself to think around it as the snake kept hissing.

“ _Speak_ ,” it repeated.

“ _I don’t know what you want me to say,_ ” he hissed, uncertain. The words ordered themselves naturally as he spoke, unlike either English or Ilkis, and yet he understood. “ _Why are you here?_ ”

“ _Accepted,_ ” hissed the snake, and vanished into smoke together with the skull. The CDs returned, floating back into their places with a slowness that made Harry ascribe human trepidation to them.

Samenta and Daumi were staring.

“What,” Samenta slowly said.

“ _Shaslushe –_ ” Harry started, and then jolted, as he realized he was still stuck in Parseltongue. With effort he forced himself to remember how to speak above a whisper. “Pars – parseltongue,” he managed – thickly at first, and then it became easier. “That was Parseltongue.”

“What in all view of the Dálkót is Parsalltongue?!”

Harry blinked. They didn’t know?

“… It’s Parseltongue,” he said stupidly. “Er. Snake-speak. It’s a – magical ability?”

“A mage talent, you mean,” Daumi said shortly. She sat down heavily on the couch, grabbing a cushion and wrapping her arms around it. “You didn’t mention you had a – such a _weird_ talent.”

Did they truly not know?

“… You know Voldemort can do that too,” Harry said slowly. The girls stared at him even harder, if that were possible. “A person who can speak to snakes is called a Parselmouth,” he went on desperately. “Voldemort was the last Parselmouth in Britain – Ancient B’itá. It was sort of a big deal? Especially when I turned out to have it… people thought I was evil so I didn’t like to talk about it.” He paused. “Er. That’s why I didn’t mention it.”

Samenta was frantically swiping at screens, oracle clutched in a death grip. “That’s not a listed talent,” she was saying. “I swear it’s not.”

“Well, maybe Voldemort didn’t put himself on the list,” Harry said. He felt tired and ready to go to bed, even though he hadn’t even had dinner yet. “That seems a lot like something he would do.”

  


* * *

  


Nakíní was a snake of simple concerns. Was her belly full, or at least, recently fed enough that she did not feel empty? Was the air the perfect temperature? Had her scales been scratched to her satisfaction? Did she have a warm place to lie (preferably atop a certain human’s body)? Had anything interesting happened lately, or right now, that she might watch and laugh at? Was her human keeping himself out of trouble?

All these fulfilled, and she really could not want for anything more.

But rarely were they all fulfilled. Interesting things sometimes went through droughts, or else things which had been interesting, such as the speckles all over the black window, ceased to be interesting once they had been around for long enough to be thoroughly examined and explored. (She could not eat the speckles. It was maddening and terrible that she could not do this thing.) And then, of course, there was her human, who either did not know the meaning of ‘keeping himself out of trouble’, or knew it but intentionally acted against it.

Also maddening. Also terrible.

He was asleep now, though. Normally Nakíní would be sleeping with him, or at least curled up with him to steal all his glorious mammalian body heat, but he had filled practically his entire nest-room with smoke beforehand, and it made her sneeze when she attempted to enter. She had left him to it, and found herself a nice spot in the other nest-room that they usually spent their time in. The plants were nice and green and soft, and the soil in the soil-lines around the edges of the room was nice and damp. She curled up in it so that she was barely visible, feeling quite comfortable and pleased with herself.

Perhaps when her human woke up she would demand a bath.

So it was that Nakíní was curled up in the plants, feeling quite nice and only paying the attention to her surroundings as was needed to occasionally taste the air, when a fake and tasteless thing made a noise.

She raised her head out of the ferns, hood flaring just a bit, and tasted the air. As she had expected, nothing had changed, but there was the familiar pleasant tingle across her scales that she felt whenever the false images came out of the black rock, the same, if less dramatic, as the tingle and warmth she felt when her human did magic.

The snake crawled out from the soil-line and onto the human fake-moss carpet, tongue flickering all the while. She could not smell anything untoward, but the black rock had never done this before. It was so very intriguing, and she slithered right up close to it, rearing as tall as she could so that she could observe the false images with her eyes. The images were flat and scentless, and always hard to look at for that reason, but they looked like how she thought a human skull ought to look without any taste. And oh, yes, that was certainly meant to be a snake. She recognized that image – it was her human’s favorite design.

“Outside access requested,” hissed the fake snake.

Nagini tilted her head to one side in befuddlement. “What?” she replied.

“Outside access requested.”

“Who are you?”

“Outside access requested by _Ets_.”

“Who is _Ets?_ ”

“You know this,” it hissed – but in her human’s voice!

Nakíní flicked her tongue out again, but nothing had changed. “Let _Ets_ come in,” she decided. Maybe if this happened, and Ets was here, her human would stop acting so ridiculous all the time! Really, staring at empty boxes and complaining that they were empty, but not accepting attempts to fill them, a strange obsession with fake human hands, and staring at weird glowing balls for days…

Nakíní had always known that she was the sensible one of the pair. But she worried for him sometimes, she really did.

“Granted. Sending thoughts,” the snake hissed, and the false image vanished. The tingle across her scales slowly ebbed.

Nakíní stared at the black rock for a moment longer, but nothing happened. The mysterious Ets did not appear.

Oh well, she thought. It was worth a try.

  


* * *

  


“You have the same mage talent as _Voldemort_?” Issa cried.

“He has the same mage talent as our Lord,” Mahi near-whispered.

“Hey, at least it seems to mean our wæfæ can now get infinite shows?” Samenta said, half-hysterically. “It even gets stuff from other countries! Like, news channels and stuff!”

“That’s not legal,” Issa and Mahi cried in tandem – Issa reverentially, Mahi with horror. The resulting verbal altercation led to Samenta permanently banning Issa from interacting with their wæfæ in any way, and Issa loudly protesting while Mahi held her down in her seat and Harry and Daumi watched with muted surreality.

“What do you think the Dálkót watches?” Daumi asked once the silence had grown to be too much.

Harry tried to imagine Voldemort watching television, and immediately felt like a joke. “He wouldn’t. He probably thinks it’s a waste of time or something.”

“Since when are you a Dálkót expert?”

“Er…”

  


* * *

  


The wæfæ – Harry still wasn’t sure which English word that had descended from – was, in some ways, a blessing. Instead of sitting dully on the couch, feeling as though the world was ending around him, Harry could sit dully on the couch and be distracted from the end of the world by the antics of Næzélas Wálas, Teódór Keriak, and Vanésa Pírias as they tried to navigate their three-way romance while also living in a dinky sea-level apartment in Sen-F’en that overlooked the bay (and sometimes inconveniently got splashed by high waves when the military base nearby miscalculated their landings and dunked an atmo-ship into the ocean). The entire concept of a romantic relationship involving three people – not just two – was fascinating to Harry. He was beginning to see, now, why Dudley had so often been lured into a hypnotised state by the screen in the living room at 4 Privet Drive. He wondered if television in the 1990s had been this interesting.

It was really doing wonders for his Ilkis comprehension, too. He still wasn’t a very fast reader, but he felt he could reasonably pass in conversation, now. He had a slight accent, but it barely mattered when his main triumph was finally comprehending the apostrophe letters. It was a subtle difference, so subtle he’d barely been able to hear it, until he’d gotten to episode 67 of his new (and, currently, only) favorite show. Then, abruptly, something had clicked within his ears, and he’d recognized the difference. _B_ alone was just sort of normal, the way he’d always spoken a _B_. _B’_ , though, was something else entirely – still mostly _B_ , but deeper. There was a faint movement he needed to make in his throat to make it turn out properly, and though he still wasn’t perfect at producing that movement on command, he could certainly hear it. And now, when he saw it written, he at least knew what it meant.

It wasn’t Bitá, it was _B’itá_.

He’d worked out some of the strangeness of their pronunciation of his name, and of Voldemort’s name, too. It had something to do with vowels. Because the ‘ee’ sound at the end of ‘Harry’ was rarely found at the ends of words in Ilkis, they stressed it, because of how unusual it was. As far as Voldemort went, Harry had gotten Mahi to write it out for him, and found that they now spelled it _Vóldamórt_. You had to stress one of the last two syllables, Mahi had explained, and _mórt_ was much better for that than _a_.

It made a strange kind of sense.

So, now Harry could speak better Ilkis, and understand better Ilkis. The girls had basically stopped using their half-Ilkis, half-English dialect around him, forcing him to keep up his comprehension skills. It wasn’t anywhere near as frustrating as it had been when he was cluelessly running around in the woods outside the city.

It was better to distract himself with something to do, after all. Harry didn’t mind.

  


* * *

  


“Are you alright?” Mahi asked.

“I’m fine,” said Harry.

“You don’t look fine.”

Harry didn’t reply.

“Actually, you kinda look like shit,” Mahi said. “Do you want me to show you how to use concealer? I promise it’s not hard.”

“I think I’m going to look like shit whether or not you can see the bags under my eyes,” said Harry dully.

“Well, how about I show you anyway?”

So Mahi showed him how to use concealer. Harry tried to take it as a lesson in B’itái culture, rather than the odd, incongruous and totally un-masculine experience that his brain tried belatedly to label it as. _Fag_ , he heard Uncle Vernon yelling in the back of his mind, and was promptly disgusted with himself for having an internal Uncle Vernon at all.

He paid extra close attention after that, vowing to excise every piece of the man from his consciousness. Or maybe from his subconsciousness, more accurately.

“So what’s the real reason for binging Sen-F’en Waves?” the girl said conversationally. Harry was squinting at himself in the mirror, trying to work out how much powder was too much. It had seemed so simple when Mahi had demonstrated the technique, but it was bloody difficult. Had Lavender Brown and Padma Patil really done this every morning?

They were long dead. Nevertheless, his respect for them abruptly increased tenfold.

“Binging?” he said.

“Watching episodes all day.”

An accurate enough term for what he’d been doing. Harry shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.

“It can’t be because you like the plot,” Mahi said. “There must be – ”

Harry felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, inexplicably focused on three fictional characters. It was, oddly, almost as strong as the protective urges he had sometimes felt for his real friends. “Hey, Teódór is really interesting,” he said hotly. “He’s doing his best to make it work with Næzélas and Vanésa. Lay off him.”

“… But it’s so corny,” said Mahi.

“I don’t care. I like it. It’s cute,” Harry said. He patted at the skin under his eye with the brush, and felt triumph when the obviously-powdered area became a bit less obvious. “It helps me with Ilkis and it’s a nice distraction from how everything is terrible.”

“Everything isn’t terrible. They’ve even lifted the lockdown for the industrial districts,” Mahi said. “I mean, I really, really don’t want to jinx it, but…”

“No,” Harry said authoritatively, waving his brush as if it were a wand. “Everything is terrible. It’s – B’itá is Voldemort-Land.” He grimaced. “And I’m stuck here and I don’t know what to do.”

“Voldemort-Land?” Mahi repeated dubiously.

“Voldemort-Land,” Harry said. “How is there any room for Harry Potter in Voldemort-Land? There isn’t any. I’m useless. Everyone was always going on and on about how I’d be the one to kill him, how it would be me, how I would somehow fix everything by just existing – but I didn’t! Look at what the world is like now. And now I’m – ”

_“But I am the Chosen One – ”_

The brush slipped from his numb fingers. Before Harry could quite understand what he was doing, he was slumped and sobbing on the bathroom floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought I only had one conlang prepared for this fic, didn't you? Let it be known that for _ages_ I've been looking for any excuse to put my Parseltongue-conlang into a fanfiction.
> 
> Did Harry accidentally manage to download Voldemort's entire instant-streaming library because of a lucky coincidence of Nagini being awake at the time and in the room with the Parseltongue-speaking illusion?
> 
> Yes. Yes he did.


	12. Kaneská

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _kaneská_ (n.) a bond between two or more individuals, objects, or concepts; a process of cause and effect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I joined the Tomarrymort Chamber of Secrets discord server a week to this day, and I have been absolutely blown away by all the nice and kind people there. I have had so much fun this past week and my ability to focus on my writing has increased by roughly 1000 percentage points. I have experienced the pure joy of being able to tell people that I write _Mi Aedijekit_ and having them react with countless exclamation points. When I came up with this idea I never expected so many people to find it so compelling. You're all gorgeous humans and new friends, and I only want to keep writing. I want to finish this story. I don't care that it may take me a year or more to write out everything that's in my head, and I don't care how long it gets. I want to finish this, both to prove to myself that I can write a massive project and bring it to an ending, and so that I can give something back to the community that's been so welcoming and supportive.
> 
> :sluglove: @ you all.

  


* * *

  


_“But I am the Chosen One,”_ he’d said back then, in the Hogwarts library. Hermione had hit him on the head with her parchment, as if he were being stupid. Even at the time he’d said it as a joke. Him, Harry Potter, just Harry, the Chosen One? Imagine that. It was satirical, but reality had been entirely satirical lately, and there was no longer a good way for Harry to tell which satire was too fake to be reality.

He’d failed everyone. Failed them utterly. Hadn’t the Prophecy said – and yet here Harry was, his feet ripped out from under him by the loss of the floor that was a stable year. Was the Prophecy even valid anymore? Did prophecies have expiration dates?

He noted distantly that he was being hugged.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped out. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t find them all. He got me first.”

Nobody was alive to accept his apology.

  


* * *

  


Harry woke up in the comfier of the two sitting room armchairs, and found that it was dusk. He didn’t remember getting there, but for the moment, the hollow feeling inside of him devoured any concerns he might have had about the loss of time.

Samenta peeked cautiously around the doorway, holding a mug in her hands. “Do you want hot chocolate?” she asked.

“Okay,” Harry said. Stiffly, he got up and wandered into the kitchen. Issa and Mahi were crushed together at one end of the small table, Mahi staring into her own mug, and Issa fiddling with her oracle as if it were about to explode on her. Mahi was leaning against Issa, head resting on an angular shoulder.

Samenta pressed a mug overflowing with marshmallows into Harry’s hands. He couldn’t even see any sign of chocolate, and he squinted down at it for a moment before figuring – what did it even matter? He took a big mouthful, and heat and sweetness injected themselves into his bones.

“Harry,” Daumi said slowly from the table. “Do you, um…”

Harry sat in the empty seat, before realizing that Samenta didn’t have one. He tried to offer it to her, but she just shook her head and waved a hand. Another chair popped into existance, bouncing lightly in the air until it had oriented itself to the floor, and she squeezed in between Harry and Daumi.

“I think we need to talk about some things,” Daumi said slowly.

Mahi gave a strangled laugh.

“Some things?” Harry said. He tried to consider what had been going on before he had awoken in the sitting room, and the wave of grief again threatened to overwhelm him. He moved away, stomach cramped and eyes hot from the force of it, but he did remember enough to recall his own breakdown in a vague, distant sort of way.

“Are you going to kick me out now because I was trying to kill Voldemort in the past?” he asked dully.

“You can live with me if they do,” Issa said.

Samenta’s lips twisted awkwardly on her face. “I don’t… I mean. That was sort of what the _kaunk’evs_ were trying to do, wasn’t it?”

Harry nodded.

“But you sounded like you were more involved than even that,” Mahi said, with a tone that Harry couldn’t quite read. It was frustration, fear, anger, and exhaustion all rolled into a strange, sad and upset package that made him wince to even contemplate. “Who’s the ‘chosen one’?”

Harry sighed, low and soft, and put his head down on the table.

“It’s a long story,” he muttered.

How could he explain the relationship between himself and Voldemort? The very nature of it boggled Harry’s own understanding, and suddenly being transported to the future had changed nothing of that confusion.

“Try us,” Issa said firmly. Harry imagined that she looked indignant at the idea that Harry would ever consider not telling her.

“So,” he said slowly. He still didn’t lift his head, feeling unready to look at another human face. “You know how I mentioned that Voldemort killed my parents?”

“Yeah,” said Samenta and Daumi, at about the same time as Mahi spluttered on her drink, and Issa made an _“Ooooh”_ noise.

“Oh,” Daumi continued.

“Whoops,” said Samenta.

“Forgot to mention that to you guys when Harry told us about it. Sorry.”

“Why did he do that?” Mahi said. Her voice was wobbly enough to entice Harry out of his self-imposed visual isolation, and he stared up with awe. Her eyes were watery – she looked to be on the verge of tears. A strange warmth passed through Harry’s chest.

“Well, it was sort of a mess,” Harry said. “I don’t remember it. I was one year old. My parents were members of this, um – _kaunk’ev_ organization called the Order of the Phoenix. But he was actually trying to kill me specifically.” There were gasps, but he forced himself to continue on. “There was this prophecy. Do you still have prophecies in the future?”

“Not really,” said Mahi.

“What?” Harry blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah, I think they’re… you’re not allowed to remember them? It’s some KIY treaty,” she waved her hand in the air. “It was around when they globally outlawed chronomancy, on similar grounds, I think…” She trailed off.

“How do they deal with it if somebody just goes into a trance, though?” Harry asked with bewilderment. “The professor at Hogwarts who taught Divination did that near me once. She had no control over it and didn’t remember anything afterwards.”

“People who have any type of seer mage talent usually have an oracle that can notice if they trance, and it puts up silence and obliviate wards.” Mahi shrugged. “I’m not sure how other countries handle it, though…” She looked up into the distance in thought.

Harry gaped. “What, so when my Divination professor tranced in front of me, I would have just been obliviated? Just like that?”

“Or you just wouldn’t have heard anything,” Mahi said. “It’s rare that they actually have to obliviate somebody.”

“That’s bloody creepy.”

“It’s better than prophecies running around causing havoc, though,” said Mahi.

Well… when she put it that way. The prophecy had certainly caused a lot of havoc, Harry thought.

“So there was a prophecy, though,” said Issa. “And people knew about it because you didn’t obliviate for those back then?”

“Right,” Harry said. “There was this prophecy. It went like this…” He took a breath. “ _The one with the –_ ”

There was a general commotion from around the table. “Don’t _tell_ us!” Issa shrieked, louder than Mahi’s frantic gestures of ‘stop’, or either of the twins’ “No wait” and “Hang on”.

“How am I supposed to explain if I can’t tell you?” Harry muttered grumpily. He buried his face in the hot chocolate in order to try and resist the urge to glare at them. Then again, Issa was usually always up for anything. The fact that even she didn’t want to know…

Were prophecies really that bad?

“Just be really sketchy about the explicit details,” Issa offered. “Like, just say what people interpreted it to mean.”

Harry thought about this for a moment.

“Alright,” he said. “So… this prophecy was made. One of Voldemort’s Death Eaters at the time was spying around and overhead, uh, the first half of it, which was still enough for him to get the general gist, which was that somebody was being born who might be able to kill him. He’s immortal, you know,” he added – extremely uselessly. All the girls looked at him as if he’d just proclaimed grandly that the sky was actually _blue_.

“Duh,” Daumi said flatly.

“It was a big deal back then,” Harry said resentfully. “It freaked people out.”

“You were the person being born,” Mahi said. Her voice was dull.

Harry stared down at the table.

“Oh, my, _lót_ ,” Issa said. A strange expression was making its way across her face, as if she didn’t know where she wanted to settle. “This is even better than I thought it was gonna be – ”

“How is this good?!” Mahi said.

“Well it’s not like anything happened with that!” Harry snapped. “I mean?” He gestured at the ceiling, hoping that the general meaning of ‘Voldemort is somewhere up there in space’ was at least partly clear.

“Fair.”

“So,” Harry went on. “I guess back then he was a bit razzed by the idea that I might grow up and kill him. So he decided to kill me first. When he broke into the house he just killed my parents for good measure, I guess.”

“You’re also clearly not dead,” Samenta pointed out.

“I’m not.” Another sip, to fortify himself. “See this?” Harry touched a finger to the portion of scar that trailed down onto his cheek. There were nods and acknowledgements. “I got this when he tried to use a Killing curse on me, but it rebounded and – didn’t kill him,” he said darkly. “He had some safeguards in place. But it did destroy his body.”

Issa was glaring at the scar as if it had offended her. “They didn’t have AK deflection in the 1990s, though.”

“This was 1981,” Harry said. “And yes, they didn’t. I think that my mum did something that saved me somehow, but everyone back then thought it was just something special about me, because I was still alive,” he said bitterly. “And mum wasn’t.” Another sip. “They were also excited because they thought Voldemort was dead. I sort of became famous, except I grew up in the non-magical world, with non-magical people, who didn’t tell me that magic existed, so I had no idea I had done this thing until I was eleven. That’s not really important, though. Anyway, Voldemort got obsessed with killing me, for obvious reasons I suppose.” Nods. “I had a few encounters with him while he didn’t have a body, and usually got out of them. There was some… some weird magical effect on me that meant he couldn’t touch me without getting hurt. And my scar,” he tapped it again, “would hurt if he was nearby, or if he was feeling a strong emotion – usually anger, but you know. I also had dreams about what he was doing, sometimes, or that I was him, in the dream.

“When I was fourteen he managed to get one of his Death Eaters into Hogwarts as the Defense professor, and at the end of the school year they used the chaos of this big tournament that was happening to kidnap me off the grounds. He stole some of my blood to recreate his body and resurrect himself, and I guess that also got rid of the fact that he couldn’t touch me without burning up. Didn’t fix the scar hurting, though. I just barely got away without being murdered, and the dreams and stuff got stronger when he had a body – I used to only get his emotions when he was physically nearby, but after the graveyard I got them basically all the time.”

Harry paused and took a breath. The girls were staring rapt at him, except for Issa, who was lookingly wildly, darkly excited for a reason Harry could not fathom. He didn’t look directly at her, not really wanting to know what was going on just yet.

“What happened then?” Mahi whispered, hushed.

Harry shrugged. “Well, there was – ”

Sirius.

He fell silent again, staring down at his hot chocolate. The marshmallows floated across the surface, bobbing, slightly melted, like they’d been left in the sun. Small dregs of cocoa powder dirtied the sides of the cup, and Harry fought down the urge to wipe them away.

“There was a fight that happened at the end of – sorry. In May in 1996,” he said dully. “Voldemort tricked me into trying to steal a copy of the prophecy for him, so he could hear the whole thing. It didn’t work – it got shattered. My godfather died.” He held his breath, willing the tears away. The wound he felt over Sirius had never fully healed – the pain was still a visceral, knife-like twist directly to his heart. “Um. Then Dumbledore showed me the full prophecy. He had it in a Pensieve. It upset me a lot.”

“1996?” Issa asked.

“Yeah.” Harry glanced at her warily, and saw that the strange expression had slipped away, at least for now.

“Right,” she said, nodding. “Did Voldemort do anything else?”

“Um… not that year,” Harry said slowly. “He started using Occlumency to block me from his head, though. So that was – alright, I guess. No bad dreams. Then he, in 1997… you know,” he said. His voice was bitter despite his efforts to the contrary. “‘Founding Day’ and all that.”

“And then you were a fugitive,” Issa said.

“And then I was a fugitive,” Harry confirmed. “We were – um.”

Would they even want to know about horcruxes?

Harry wasn’t stupid, despite what Snape had often liked to imply. He knew he could be a bit – single-minded, he decided to call it. But he wasn’t an idiot or a dunderhead. He could read the writing on the wall. Mahi and Issa and Samenta and Daumi were his – friends? His friends, now. But they had grown up in Voldemort-Land – in B’itá. It would be as if somebody had stumbled into Harry’s life ranting about the best way to assassinate Dumbledore. He didn’t think he’d even have wanted to know.

“… In 1996 and 1997, before Founding Day,” he said slowly, “Dumbledore was giving me sort of – lessons in how he thought Voldemort had become immortal, and how to undo it so we could kill him. Or so I could, I guess,” he said, softer.

Because hadn’t that been expected? _The Chosen One._ Of course only _the Chosen One_ would kill Voldemort. It was laughable to expect Dumbledore to do it.

But when he looked up, they were frowning at him as one.

“… Are you saying,” Daumi said, “that this guy knew how to kill – Voldemort?” She said the Dark Lord’s name with a much lower pitch, voice hushed to nearly a whisper. Harry could still hear it perfectly well in the silence of the room.

“Well – yeah,” he said. “He just taught it to me because of the prophecy.”

Mahi put her head in her hands and mumbled something that Harry couldn’t make out.

“Why couldn’t he do it, then?” Daumi said. “You were what – 15? 16?”

“16,” Harry said defensively.

“But isn’t that way too young?” She was pale, her freckles standing out prominantly on her face.

“Not too young to – ”

“Change of topic!” Issa said. All the girls looked at her, so Harry also stopped, wondering what was going on. Issa steepled her fingers. “So you were trying to kill our Lord and savior. Fairly normal _kaunk’ev_ activity, all things considered. But you got caught?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, feeling stupid once more for the manner in which it all had gone down.

“What exactly happened with that?” Issa asked. “You mentioned dungeons and being drugged. But did he say anything to you about it? Did your weird dream-thing act up?”

Harry went to push his glasses up his nose, but realized abruptly that he didn’t need to do that. He rubbed his face instead. “I woke up in a dungeon after getting captured,” he said. “Voldemort came around a few times and – talked to me?” It was still strange to imagine. “It was like he was trying to see if he could convince me to stop fighting him. I refused, though. I don’t think I had any strange dreams, either, and my scar didn’t hurt so much…”

It hadn’t hurt at all, really, he remembered. That had been only one of many bewildering things about the situation, though, and as it was more of a blessing than a curse, Harry hadn’t even bothered to think of it.

“He stopped coming down after three or four times. Then I got taken upstairs and he, er.”

That _had_ been extremely odd, hadn’t it?

Issa was leaning forwards across the table, chin propped on her hands. “He, er?”

“He was weird, is all,” Harry said with frustration. “He didn’t curse me. He just came in and talked about how…”

“About how?” Issa’s eyes were sparkling.

“How,” Harry said slowly. The sparkling was making him a bit nervous. “Do you have some kind of idea, Issa?” he asked suspiciously.

“I might. I need whatever you know.”

Mahi was looking at Issa skeptically. Harry glanced at the twins, but only saw confusion and interest, so he moved on.

“He was acting weird,” Harry allowed. “Normally when we’re in the same space, we would just be cursing at each other, and he’d be trying to kill me… the one time I was tied up at his resurrection and he was gloating that he’d get to kill me. But he wasn’t gloating this time, just… being weird.”

“What kind of weird?” Issa pressed.

Harry shrugged futilely. “I dunno?” he said. “He was like ‘oh, I almost think I might miss you’, and for some reason he started talking about how he’d murdered a guy I hated, and then he played some weird guessing-game with me to tell me what potion he was going to use to drug me.” The panic tried to grow again – Harry bit his lip and forced himself to breathe. “He forced me to drink it and then that was it. Until I woke up with you guys.”

“Is there anything else he said?” Issa said insistently. “Anything at all that was particularly unusual? You’re sure he said he might miss you?”

_I shall take… such good care of you._

Harry’s stomach rolled.

“Just creepy shit,” he muttered.

Issa perked up. Her leg was bouncing underneath the table. “Creepy shit?” she said quickly. “Creepy shit like what? How so creepy? Harry, my son, you _must_ tell me – ”

“Issa!” Mahi snapped. “Don’t you think he’s had enough?!”

“But Mahi, my darling, listen to – ”

Samenta gave a small squeak. Harry looked over to find she had clapped a hand over her mouth. “Issa, _no_ ,” she said, muffled. “How?!”

Daumi looked at Samenta in confusion. Samenta looked back and the confusion was replaced with shock that quickly turned to –

“Holy shit, no way.”

Harry drank his hot chocolate aggressively, until it was all gone. “Can somebody please explain why you’re all being so weird?” he griped.

“Harry, I need to know what he said,” Issa said again. She leaned over the table and took Harry’s hands in her own, holding them up as if in prayer. “For the sake of all that is magical in this world, I must know. _What did he say?_ ”

“Just creepy stuff, okay!” Harry snapped. He tugged his hands away. “It was creepy, Issa, I don’t want to think about it.”

“But did he look sad?” she went on feverishly. “Did he stare at you?”

“He always stared at me,” Harry said. “What – ”

The implications finally hit him with the force of a dragon’s tail to the chest.

“ _What?!_ ” he shrieked. The mug in his hands shattered into fragments of ceramic, and he felt a full-body shudder vibrate through all of his bones. “Fuck! Issa, no, that is not possible!”

She hummed, squinting at him. “Are you sure, my son?” she asked. “You had wanted posters, right? Did you have wanted posters? You did, didn’t you?”

“Yeah?”

“What did they say? Did they ever get changed?”

“No, they just – ” Except they had, hadn’t they? “I mean. Originally I was wanted dead or alive. Then I was wanted alive only, and they got really specific about how only certain ‘subdual’ injuries were acceptable, or the person bringing me in would really regret their existence…”

No. No no no. This was not happening. This was not what had happened. This was not what had been implied by the change in wanted posters. It was just that Voldemort wanted the pleasure of murdering Harry himself, and he wanted him to be in alright shape so that he could get some jollies off through torture beforehand. There wasn’t much point in torturing Harry if he was already physically broken beyond repair, after all.

Hell, Harry thought. He’d gotten a broken nose during his attempts to run from that Snatcher, because he’d had no idea that muggle warehouse doors could swing back at you so quickly. It hadn’t even been the Snatcher’s fault, and he hadn’t bothered to fix it after petrifying Harry, which was perfectly along the lines of Harry’s expectations. Yet Voldemort’s face had gone even colder than usual when he had seen it, and the Snatcher had been Crucio’d. That had been the first bewildering thing. “ _I clearly stated he was not to be touched,_ ” Voldemort had lisped. And he’d even fixed Harry’s nose after the Snatcher had been dragged out!

No, nope, no. Nope.

Somebody slapped him on the back, and Harry wheezed and fell against the table. When he finally managed to look up, Issa looked guilty, and everyone was glaring at her.

“You’re wrong,” Harry gasped.

“Okay. Sure,” Issa said.

Harry went to take a shower, hoping he could wash the terrible thoughts away.

  


* * *

  


Vóldamórt stood in his office, staring out the viewport towards the outer reaches of the solar system, and thought about his person.

Location aside – and his person had not left Ládá in all the time since the scryer had been set up – Vóldamórt knew nothing of the person. Of H? Was H the letter which began their name? Did it mean something else entirely? Or had he selected it randomly, as a way to further obscure his person’s identity, believing that of course he would always remember the real meaning behind the code of that letter?

This last thought sent his gut twisting into knots and futile rage. As the ruler of the only autocracy left amongst known human civilization, Vóldamórt was familiar with many types of anger, but this helpless anger was the only one he particularly despised. It was a litany in the deep recesses of his mind and chest, pounding until his ribs ached – _if only, if only, if only_. He’d never been one to entertain _if only_ , and his life was successful enough that he did not worry overmuch about them. Or he hadn’t, until…

The wine glass on the desk cracked. Slivers of glass cascaded into the carpet. Vóldamórt ignored them, despite the potential minefield they created for the skin of his bare feet if he forgot to clean them up.

There was nobody to blame. He was the only culpable party, and he hadn’t even noticed what had been happening until it was far too late. Had he hated his own childhood so much, though, that he never reflected on it seriously? Surely there had to have been some moments of triumph? August 1, 1997, if nothing else! He had to have been alive then because that was the date of B’itá’s founding. How had he felt, when he had achieved that? Had he been happy? Elated? Had he celebrated? Had he gotten straight to work? Had any slight miscalculation in the actual effect of finally owning a land and people and a governmental office dimmed the enthusiasm with complications?

Had he had his person then?

Why had he had a person, anyway? He had always been mostly alone. Nakíní was his companion and she was plenty for Vóldamórt’s needs. She was always there for him to hold if he wished, to feel the comfortable weight that was a twelve-foot cobra on his chest while he slept. She was cold-blooded, yet counterintuitively, her presence made him feel warmth. He needed her – he needed to hear her scoffing, growling hisses, the strangely perfect blend of straightforward logic that so often brought him back to his senses when he got caught up in abstractions. She didn’t understand human culture very much, nor did she care for it, but she was almost always insightful all the same, when he put things into terms to which she could relate.

She’d always been there. Vóldamórt didn’t recall a time when she hadn’t been with him.

It was one of the very few things he didn’t wish to recall about himself, though he knew such a time must have existed at some point. He had probably been miserable without her, all the same. He couldn’t imagine being without her.

He watched as, in the distance, a large cargo freighter finished slingshotting itself around the planet, and passed a few kliks from the Dark Mark’s contiguous zone on its way to the asteroid belt. He examined the national symbol emblazoned on it, recognized it as an Enátiak ship, and promptly lost interest. Enátka didn’t come even to the most open of KIY summits, preferring to burrow further into the ice at the base of the planet. For a moment he idly wondered how long it would take before Enátkái could no longer interbreed with the majority of humanity, and then he carefully put the thought aside for later centuries.

Why had he had a person? A human person. He had never felt the need before, in all his life that he could remember. He had always imagined that Nakíní was enough for him. The powerful are always alone. Somebody had said that once – he couldn’t quite recall the source for now. Perhaps he had said it to himself.

And he was powerful, of course – his magic aside, which he knew well was perhaps the strongest in the world at this moment, considering his record-breaking age (however old he was…) and the practice he forced himself to keep. He was a powerful mage, and he held at his fingertips perhaps more political power than any other human in the world. Certainly none of the other KIY countries liked him much at all, but then, they never had.

He reached out to caress the cover of his oracle, which floated at his shoulder obediently. He could open this right now, he mused, and order Alisias to have one of the wáf-bombs detonated onto the capital of any foreign country that he wished. And they didn’t even know that he had made wáf-bombs a reality. To everyone else, wáf-bombs were a runic impossibility – the proper balance of ley lines with miniature black holes impossible to replicate within a Schwarzschild radius. They had no wards against it, because nobody had ever had any occasion to test what effects they had. Sometimes, Vóldamórt wondered if they really wanted to consider it, or if they were all happy to let it lie.

And he had six of them.

Not that he really wanted to unleash a wáf-bomb on his home planet. The thought was distasteful. Vóldamórt knew well the dangers of unchecked gigawar, not that the species had ever experienced gigawar as anything but theory. They had gotten quite good at preventing wars… but perhaps part of that, too, was Vóldamórt’s own existence, and the worry of what he might whip up if somebody tried to drag him into one.

No, he wouldn’t like to use them. He had them, and that proved his point. He was the most powerful, the most dangerous human in the species at the moment. At least the other countries had the sense to treat him so, even as unaware as they were of the true scope of destruction that he could wield.

All this, though, only brought him back to his original point.

Why would he have a human person who was his?

  


* * *

  


“It’s _xípkót_ ,” Daumi said firmly. “ _Xa_.”

“ _Xípkót_ ,” Harry repeated, trying his best to mimic Daumi as perfectly as he could. It sounded like he was saying ‘sheepcoat’, though it really meant ‘scapegoat’.

“No, it’s – ” She waved her hands in frustration. “You’re so close,” she whined.

“I’m not sure I even see the problem,” Harry said carefully. “It’s not like there’s two sh-sounds the way there are two b-sounds. I got the b-sounds down, didn’t I?”

“Well, yeah, but…” She huffed. “Look, I mean, I guess you sound fine. But it’s – I don’t know how to explain it! _Xa_ ,” she repeated.

“Uh-huh,” Harry said.

“How does it sound to you when I say it? If you listen carefully.”

“Say it again?”

“ _Xa_. _Xa_. _Xa_.”

Harry listened.

“It sounds… fuzzy,” he finally said. “Fuzzier than I’d expect, I mean.”

“Yeah, exactly, you notice it,” Daumi said. “When you say it, it sounds a little higher-pitched than I’d expect. It’s not noticeable, but like – it is?”

“What, sha does?”

“See, you just did it again. It’s like you’re whistling it.”

“Speaking of whistling, do you guys want tea?” Samenta called from the kitchen. “Dau, leave Harry alone about his accent. He sounds fine.”

“I just don’t want him to be noticed as a – I mean,” Daumi cleared her throat. “What if somebody thinks he’s a foreign spy because of his accent? I mean.”

“I was always a terrible spy,” Harry said shortly. “Nobody would ever give me the reconaissance missions unless they secretly wanted me to make a massive distraction.”

“Yeah, you’re bad at lying,” Samenta confirmed shortly.

“Oi, you’re not supposed to have figured that out yet,” Harry said. But he wanted to laugh, too. “I’d like tea.”

He and Daumi followed her back into the kitchen. Daumi stole a biscuit from the jar behind Samenta’s back, and Samenta hexed her without even needing to look over her shoulder. Harry just gave in to the urge to giggle, and sat down, wondering once again how it was possible for Weasleys not to change despite the panic-inducing time depth.

Samenta was pouring out the cups when there was a faint hissing noise. It wasn’t a snake, Harry thought, or at least, it wasn’t anything being said in Parseltongue – merely a noise. He looked around, trying to find the source of it.

“Harry?” Daumi asked.

A low, bass tone hummed across the room before he could reply.

“What’s that?” Harry asked worriedly. But Samenta and Daumi had already whirled to face the shimmering screen where the Dark Mark – sorry, the ‘National Sigil’ – floated. The snake, Harry saw, was retreating back into the skull, until the projected image was merely a human skull.

It had never done this before, as far as Harry was aware. It had always simply floated there, the snake moving lazily about. He glanced with worry at each of the twins in turn, but they were frozen as well.

A low-pitched woman’s voice spoke, with no real source, but Harry simply knew it was coming from the image.

“Attention,” it said. “Attention. Broadcast in five minutes. Halt all non-emergency activities at this time. Broadcast in five minutes. Acknowledge attendance now. Attention. Attention. Broadcast in…”

It went on. Samenta and Daumi were both fiddling with their oracles, and little humming noises rose up in the kitchen. The screen with the Dark – National Sigil – inverted, turning from white on black to black on white.

“Attendance acknowledged,” it said.

“What is this?” Harry whispered. He didn’t dare to move. “Does it know I’m here?”

“I doubt it, or it would have yelled at us for incomplete attendance acknowledgment,” Daumi murmured.

“But what is it?” He couldn’t bring himself not to whisper, but the girls followed his lead. No voices were raised.

“It’s a broadcast,” Daumi said. Samenta had gone back to pouring the tea, her movements a bit more subdued. “It means there’s some announcement the Dark Lord want us to hear. It’s probably either the whole country, or just Ládá… or maybe just this side of the ocean. It varies.”

“Ugh,” Harry muttered. “And you can’t turn it off?”

“Nope.”

“I hope it’s that they finally lifted the lockdown for civilians,” Samenta said softly as she passed out the teacups and sat. “Issa said she and her friends checked and the industrial distracts don’t look backed up at all anymore.”

“I hope that’s it,” Daumi said.

They fell into silence, watching the screen. The skull did nothing, despite the scrutiny.

When five minutes had passed, it flickered. There was a slight buzzing noise.

“Greetings to the citizens of Ládá,” said a woman’s voice – a different one than the one which had announced the broadcast in the first place. She had a soft voice, but Harry also felt he detected a hint of sternness that reminded him of McGonagall. “This is Left Hand Alisias Rássælt, speaking to you from the Dark Mark. The lockdown over your city is now officially ended, and you may go about your lawful business within all our country’s cities at your will. As a reminder, all foreign visas are revoked pending further notice.”

“Yes!” Samenta cheered when she mentioned the lockdown ending.

“Huh, I didn’t hear about that,” Daumi muttered when she mentioned the visas.

Harry stayed silent, listening with intensity.

“The Dark Lord,” Rássælt – she had to be a Death Eater, Harry figured – “will now make an announcement.”

His heart stopped. Everyone in the kitchen, in fact, had frozen.

“Fuck,” Harry was the first to say. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“But he _never_ talks,” Samenta whispered.

Harry wanted to run. He felt as though Voldemort were about to crawl out of the very screen into the little kitchen and take him by the throat. He felt another panic attack coming, and yet, when Voldemort did speak, it stopped abruptly, and he merely sat in shock, his breathing evening out.

“Good day, people of Ládá,” said a desperately familiar voice. There was still no image on the screen but the black skull. But he was speaking Ilkis, and to hear anything but English and Parseltongue from Voldemort was strange enough that Harry abruptly lost all fear in favor of fascination. It was the same voice, smooth and baritone, that Harry had always considered to be a herald of terrible things.

He peeked over at the twins. They were gaping at the screen, totally uncaring of Harry’s scrutiny.

“The body of this message will not be understandable to most of you,” Voldemort had gone on. “Should you not understand it, do not bother yourself with it – it is not meant for you. Should you understand it… you know who you are.”

What? What was Voldemort planning? Harry gripped his teacup harshly, until his knuckles had gone white.

When the Dark Lord spoke again, it was in English.

“Hello, H,” he said, and Harry fought to breathe normally. “I know well that currently you are in Ládá, and I very much hope that you are able to witness this broadcast. Should you be capable and willing, there are numerous interface offices throughout the city where you may turn yourself over to my soldiers. I promise that you will not be harmed, for I wish only for your safe return to me.”

“What is he – ” Samenta whispered. Daumi slapped a hand over her mouth. Harry was only proud of himself for breathing.

“I have missed you sorely since you were stolen from me, H,” Voldemort continued. His voice had softened, until it was almost coaxing, almost hypnotic. Harry gritted his teeth and forced himself to exhale. His muscles would not unclench no matter what he did. “I desire our reunion sooner rather than later. Come back to me, and I will ensure that you are as utterly comfortable as I can make you. You must know that your Lord’s power in this matter is absolute.” Harry twitched at the use of the title. “I will find you, H, whether you come to me or not. You may be assured that I will never rest my immortal body until I have you once again.

“Farewell, now. I hope to see you soon.”

There was a pause. The kitchen was utterly silent. Harry could barely hear his own breathing, as muted as it was beneath his pounding heart.

“This ends the broadcast,” cut in the woman Death Eater’s voice again – Rássælt, had it been? “You may now return to your day.”

There was another bass tone, and the screen cut back to white on black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relationship status: It's Complicated


	13. Kaspisi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _kaspisi_ (n.) a group of individuals working together, often secretly, towards questionable ends; collusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My outline slipped – the chapter count's been updated. This fic is a monster, I tell you.

  


* * *

  


The kitchen remained in a deep silence for several minutes afterwards. The snake on the screen had finished crawling its way back out of the skull’s mouth, and was now lazily nudging up against the borders of the black square. Harry had not put down his teacup, but neither had he been able to drink any more of the tea within. Samenta was staring pointedly forward, gaze fixed on the wall – Daumi was staring down at the tabletop, most likely because Harry would have been caught in her fixed stare if she had copied her twin’s posture. A light wind whistled through the alleyway of sorts outside the kitchen window, catching the wooden shutters and making them creak slightly. A few of the grape leaves slipped into the room, pushed by the wind, as if trying something new for once in their lives.

Harry finally managed to force himself to put his teacup down.

_I have missed you sorely… Comfortable… Safe return…_

Who did Voldemort think he was fooling?

A breath finally escaped him. It turned into a long, lingering sigh, as Harry tried his best to release all the tension in his muscles. It didn’t work, but the motion saw the twins perking up a bit. They glanced at him cautiously.

“He knows I’m in Ládá,” Harry said shortly. “But I don’t think that was very hard to figure out, probably. I don’t think he knows any more than that.”

Samenta slumped straight onto the table and made a small whining noise.

“I may have to go scream into a pillow,” Daumi said. “Um. Be right back.”

She got up and walked away, leaving Harry with the collapsed Samenta. Soon, just as promised, Harry heard fabric-muffled shrieking from the direction of their bedroom. He decided that maybe for now it would be best to make like Samenta, and collapsed next to her, their heads almost touching.

It was a trap. It was certainly a trap. Voldemort desperately wanted Harry back – he wanted to drug him again, certainly. The way he had referred to himself as Harry’s Lord and the way he had made it clear that he considered Harry to be stolen more than attested to that sort of attitude. Harry could almost understand it, too. It made sense for the man Tom Riddle had become. People weren’t people to him. People were annoyances or obstacles to be crushed, tools to be used, or, perhaps, at very best, possessions to be hidden away from the gaze of others, just as Tom-Riddle-Voldemort hid all his treasured things from the influence of others who were not himself. For a very long time, Harry had thought he was in the category of annoyance/obstacle. It seemed that somehow, he’d become cherished possession instead.

Why, though?

Perhaps he didn’t need to know why – after all, it was clearly enough the case that Harry could just make plans to deal with Voldemort without needing to know why Voldemort thought of him as cherished possession. He had been able to make plans to deal with Voldemort when Voldemort had thought of him as annoyance/obstacle without knowing why the Dark Lord felt that way. This wasn’t any different.

Yet it bothered him. Why the turnaround? What had happened in early July, in 1998, to suddenly change Voldemort’s mind? That was around when they had discovered that Harry’s wanted posters had changed – only Harry’s wanted posters. Hermione and Ron were still wanted dead or alive, their bounties unaltered. Only Harry’s posters had been altered – his bounty even higher, wanted alive only, and only certain subdual injuries being acceptable.

Why? What had changed?

_What had changed?_

  


* * *

  


“Ánkonof,” snapped a voice.

Isa paused, hand hovering above the access plate on the door of her flat. Peripheral glances to the left and right showed nobody currently being a very obvious brown-noser, but that certainly didn’t preclude all possible brown-nosers. The neighborhood of L-72 S-795 was typically quite interested in things that didn’t concern them, just in case they started to become concerning later. Yet the quick glance behind her and up and down the ivy-covered walkway revealed a whole load of nobody.

“Are you in fucking uniform?” she whispered under her breath.

“I’m invisible, yes,” said the voice, a bit less loudly, but no less snappish. “You threatened to push me off the balcony. Why would I come in plain clothes?”

“Oh my fucking Lord – ” Isa slammed her hand on the doorplate and shoved open the door. “Just get in so you can turn your snake off!”

There was a faint breeze. Isa counted to three before following it in, closing the door behind her and locking it for good measure. Not that it would help to have the door locked if Melfo had really come here with her military oracle, she knew. What a bitch.

The air in the middle of her kitchen shimmered, and a tall, thin figure appeared, garbed all in black. The eye wanted badly to slide off the fabric, but Isa forced herself to continue watching, and eventually the effect vanished. There was a faint red glow from the nape of her neck – she turned, revealing a white and featureless mask that vaguely resembled a skull in some ways, and utterly did not in most others.

“Don’t look like that,” said Pétua Melfo. Her voice was scattered slightly by the mask, rendering it vaguely inhuman. If Isa hadn’t known it was Pétua, she might have wondered whether it was actually who it sort of sounded like.

She didn’t stop scowling, though. “I’ll stop looking like that when you take that mask off and turn off your snake.”

“I’m not turning my snake off. You know we’re not supposed to remove the masks, either.” She sounded like she was smirking.

“You bitch, you’re not on shift. I’m witnessing an unauthorized use of military technology.”

“How the hell would you know that, _Isabéla_?”

“I know your schedule, _Melfo_.”

“And how did you even – ”

“I asked all your boyfriends,” Isa smirked, trying to inject a little cruelty into it. “Don’t call me Isabéla. Now take your stupid uniform off and tell me what you want.”

“That sounded like a proposition,” Pétua said. She reached to the nape of her neck anyway, and a small clicking noise saw the reddish lights falling away. The mask peeled itself away from her face and drifted down to rest across her shoulder like a pauldron, revealing a pale, thin-faced woman with nearly white-blond hair and eyes that had clearly been modded to match. “You know I don’t date women, Ánkonof.”

“Am I a woman? I’ve been feeling manly lately,” Isa hummed. She waltzed into the tiny kitchen with as much panache as she could muster, ignoring the nose-glare that Pétua was sending her. “I might go change my registry to say M. You could do that for me, couldn’t you?.”

“No,” Pétua nearly growled. “We need to talk about that.”

“What’s so hard about it? Just go into the database and change a poor, innocent civilian’s registry profile for some good fun – ”

“Will you take this seriously?!” Pétua shrieked. A booted foot stomped on the floor, making a noise that Isa regarded with some interest. Where could she get her own pair of military-issue uniform boots, if they made that kind of excellent noise? So worth it – Pétua was still talking. She redirected her attention. “I’m not talking about changing your gender and you fucking know it. Who cares about gender anyway? That’s not even a critical issue field, you can change it on your own. Go off. I’m talking about this new – this _thing_ you tried to hand to me.”

“Hmm?” Isa said. She fished some carrots and a bowl of hommus out of her cold cabinet. “Want a snack? I’m not giving you my henk, so this is the next best thing.”

“I don’t want to smoke your henk! Isa, I’m not doing it!”

Isa paused. She stared up at Pétua. Pétua stared back down at her, nostrils flaring.

“And what’s this ‘it’?” Isa said slowly. It was an ignorance mostly pretended. She pushed herself away from the counter and allowed herself to wander farther into the house, closer to the little closet just outside her bedroom where she kept some of the really illegal stuff. Pétua wouldn’t be able to keep from following her. She was one of those people who thrived on drama.

There was a clatter from the kitchen. Isa quietly peeked in on it through her oracle’s security linkup, and saw that Pétua had thrown the outer jacket of her uniform to the tiled floor. The snake oracle crawled lazily out from underneath like a mix between a snake and centipede, and curled into a tight, neat spiral, ceramic ‘ribs’ interlocking. At least the fall hadn’t reactivated it.

“Listen to me,” Pétua huffed once they were both in the plant room. Isa turned, noting idly that no more skin was showing than before, despite the jacket’s removal. Interesting fact about military uniforms. She filed it away for later.

“I’m listening.”

“I know I’ve done some pretty heavy modifications before,” Pétua stage-whispered. “Modify some fields, shift fingerprint data – heck, I can even subtract pretty easily, remember when Mikíla decided she was going to go live in the wilderness in the Elps forever?” Isa nodded easily. “This is not that, Isa. This is addition.”

“What’s the problem with addition?” she asked casually.

“You know, I looked at the procedure beforehand,” Pétua said uselessly.

“Oh my Lord,” Isa said. Her lungs froze a little in her chest for a moment. “Don’t tell me old Pákánia doesn’t actually have the authority to make new citizens?”

“Oh, no, he does,” Pétua said. “But did you know, Isabéla, that to finish authenticating the record you need to submit a full DNA string, a full aura reading, and not just the fingerprints, but the palmprints as well?”

Isa forced herself to breathe.

“You need – ” She stopped mid-thought. “Has it always been like this?”

Pétua shrugged. “The palms are new,” she said, “or at least I think that’s the case. Mónkóri and K’iastásá were complaining about it kind of loudly in the cafeteria before Mr. Ancient History told them they were going to go dredge the waterways if they made another peep.”

“How new?”

“New since about the start of the lockdown. Why?”

Isa stayed silent, but her mind whirled. Fuck, she thought, _fuck_. Why hadn’t she thought of that?! Did His Lordship have some of Herí’s information? DNA? Prints? Aura? What did he have? He couldn’t have the face because there was no wanted poster –

But why wouldn’t he have the face? Herí had said Vóldamórt knew what he looked like, had seen him many times. So he had the face. But there was no wanted poster.

Maybe, maybe…

“Isa? Are you going to say something?”

“Shut up, Pétua,” Isa said. She bit her lip and tried to think.

Face, for sure. No wanted poster. Lockdown. Not because of any threat, though – containment seemed to be more likely. Palms were new. Why new? Did he have palms but not aura or DNA? Why? Then again, when had DNA sequences become quickly parsable? Maybe he’d never grabbed either of those… but then why not release the prints… unless they had been released.

“Can you look at the criminal pursuit department at all, or are you locked out?” Isa asked.

“Excuse me? I’m solely demographics, Isabéla, no I cannot.”

“Hex. Fuck. Okay.”

But then again… why release the _prints_ if you weren’t also going to release the _face_ …

“Don’t you still have Mikíla’s record?” she asked, deciding to focus on something else for now.

“Huh? Yeah, it’s hidden from general search and it’s mostly empty, but sure.”

“Can you just totally overwrite it? But maybe leave her DNA and stuff.”

“I didn’t even know they had DNA, Isa. I can’t edit that. I don’t even know where that metadata is kept. Are you even listening to me?! _All our records have DNA and we didn’t know._ ”

“Yeah, well, we’re not in the pen yet so cool it,” Isa said. She was more concerned with Herí at the moment, not that Pétua needed to know that. Besides, if any of them were going to be arrested on the basis of genetics, then Isa figured she would have been sent to some kind of re-education camp ages ago. “So what you’re gonna do is delete all of Mikíla’s data that you can see, since it’s not like she’s ever coming back. Then I’ll pass you the new stuff once I get the new oracle filled out and you add it in. Easy. Solved. We nailed it.”

Pétua sucked in a breath, and her shoulders slumped. “Yeah, alright, fine,” she said. “Pretend we did that. Who am I putting in there?”

“That’s for me to know and you to not know.” Isa gave Pétua a sharp look.

“You wanted a totally new record. Where did you pull some new random person from? Because Isa, I swear, if this is some kind of foreign treason thing and not just the usual petty criminalisms then I’m turning you in.”

“It is not foreign treason,” Isa said firmly. Maybe domestic treason, she thought to herself. But Pétua Melfo didn’t need to know that. “You know that if you turn me in, you’ll get arrested too? I’ll sell you out to the Dark Lord in a heartbeat.”

“If the Dark Lord is bothering to talk with me then _I’d_ sell me out to him in a heartbeat. What’s your point?”

“Just that we shouldn’t do anything rash,” Isa said sweetly. “Now, Melfo, you didn’t eat any of my carrots and hommus. Take a fucking carrot and eat it so I can kick you out of my house.”

Thank His Lordship, that and the malicious bedroom eyes were enough to distract Pétua from prodding for any more details. Isa gladly shunted the errant soldier out of the housing complex by way of balcony. Then she scrubbed the tiles in the kitchen down with a nanosponge, especially the spot where the snake oracle had curled up, just in case it had spat out some nanites or something while it was there. Nobody would be happy with something like that. She carried the carrots and the hommus into her study when she was done, stripping down to just a tank top on the way there, and carefully opened the safe.

The Ancient Inklix dictionary was still inside, and the piece of paper. They looked thankfully undisturbed. She scooped them out and sat down, shuffling around until she found the stubby pencil she’d been using to notate.

The list of points she’d made at the bottom of her (probably quite bad) translation stared back at her. Idly, she reread them.

  * _I know you’re in Ládá._
  * _I want you to see this broadcast._
  * _Go to my soldiers._
  * _(Is Éc a nickname??!)_
  * _Reunion??_
  * _I am your Lord absolutely._
  * _Come to me._
  * _I WANT NO REST UNTIL I HAVE YOU AGAIN._



Right, she thought, a little breathlessly. It _fit_.

Why not release the face and the prints if you had them? Because you wanted him to come back on his own. But was it an aesthetic attraction that could be satisfied by preservation – in which case Herí would be drugged again if he did go back – or was it more than just the aesthetics?

Herí hadn’t mentioned whether or not _Vóldamórt_ saw the things in _Herí’s_ head, after all. Maybe he didn’t even know.

She scratched down her new points. It was technically dangerous to write something like this onto paper, but it was technically dangerous to have the thoughts in her head at all. Isa had never really been deterred by ‘dangerous’ the way good citizens were supposed to be deterred.

Strictly regulating subdual damage could be aesthetics. Coffin preservation could be aesthetics. Even the tattoo could be aesthetics, maybe. But all the panic and the lockdown and the lack of released information… why not just include further injunction against subdual damage? Lord knew nobody would dare to question it, or go against it. It was probably pretty good to be the Dark Lord.

No, she thought as she scribbled. This was a different approach than previous, which meant a different reason than aesthetics. If aesthetics had ever been the reason. Why say ‘I might miss you’ to a piece of art that you’ll still be able to look at? No, that didn’t make sense. You missed somebody if you wouldn’t be able to interact with them. You missed somebody if you wanted them to be with you and they weren’t. And why would you want somebody with you? And if you wanted him to mean it because you wanted him to come on his own, well…

Isa grinned in excitement. Imagine, the Dark Lord, being in _love_.

Herí was, despite his protests, quite possibly one of the luckiest bastards in B’itá.

  


* * *

  


“You have to admit it’s suspicious,” Issa said.

Harry buried his head in the couch cushions and did his best to ignore her.

“You really think the Dark Lord just – ” Mahi paused. Harry wondered if she was making any particular expression as she paused. “I cannot believe I am going to say this.”

“Say it,” Issa replied.

“I…”

“I’ll say it if you won’t,” Daumi said.

“You say it, then.”

“Your theory – theory!” Daumi said, “is that for some totally unknown reason, the Dark Lord started having feelings for this _kaunk’ev_ boy he kept encountering, and so decided he was going to put him in a coma? Even assuming you’re correct and it was in any way romantic, wouldn’t most people just try to convert Harry at that point?”

“He is not,” Harry said. His voice was muffled by the couch cushions, so he made it as loud as he could. “He doesn’t really see people as people, he couldn’t possibly have been – ”

He couldn’t even say the words! Voldemort? Love? Voldemort – in love? Such a thing didn’t exist! Wasn’t love the Power Voldemort Knew Not? That was the whole point of the Prophecy! Wasn’t it?

Then again, Harry thought, most unwillingly.

Say Voldemort had somehow figured out the concept of love. Perhaps not properly at all, considering who he was, but – to some degree. If love was no longer the power that Voldemort knew not, then Harry would no longer have had a power the Dark Lord knew not, and then what? Was that enough to break the Prophecy? Could prophecies even be broken? There had been a lot of dim orbs in the Hall of Prophecy in the Department of Mysteries. Dim, black, no glow to them at all… had they been broken? Or simply never begun in the first place?

Ugh. No. No, but he couldn’t even entertain it! Voldemort _hated_ Harry. There was no call for him to suddenly go around developing feelings for Harry – urgh – without even any interaction with Harry that didn’t involve cursing and duelling and attempted murder!

“If he doesn’t really see people as people, how is it that he’s a good ruler?” Mahi said. Harry imagined her pursing her lips until they thinned out her mouth into a line.

“Well, I dunno,” Harry said. He finally looked up. “Samenta and Daumi have a screen in their kitchen that they can’t turn off because _he_ controls it! That seems plenty creepy to me.”

“It’s honestly not that bad,” Samenta said. “Really, Harry.”

“But isn’t it upsetting ever?” Harry pressed. “He can just interrupt you whenever he wants!”

“It’s usually for a good reason, though,” Daumi said. “I mean, it’s not like he talks with random citizens.”

“Speaking of that.” Issa’s voice was practically vibrating, and Harry prepared himself to have to deal with innumerable inquiries about what Voldemort had said during the broadcast. “My son, that was really him on the broadcast?”

Yep, Harry thought. Got it in one.

“It was him,” he said, pushing himself up.

“What did he say?” Mahi said hesitantly. Her hands were twisting anxiously in front of her stomach, worrying the hems so much that Harry was worried the sewing would come undone. “I couldn’t tell what he was saying – I heard what I thought were a bunch of ‘you’s, and he mentioned Ládá once, but…”

“He was talking to me,” Harry said shortly. Though he’d called Harry ‘H’ – he wondered about that. Why not his full name… unless – perhaps some people still spoke English? He put the thought aside. “He basically told me he wanted me back, and to go turn myself in as soon as possible, and that if I didn’t he’d never stop looking for me.” Harry shrugged. “Not too off from what I’m used to, really, except for the part where he’d probably only drug me forever instead of killing me if I went to him.”

Because of course that’s what Voldemort would do. That’s what he had done. The soft, coaxing tone, the promise that he wouldn’t be harmed – they were honey coating a trap. Harry suspected that Voldemort either knew very well that Harry would never turn himself in, or else, he imagined that maybe Harry couldn’t even speak the language yet, and was having a hard time adjusting. Perhaps he was imagining that Harry might be desperate enough, then, to agree to Voldemort’s demands if Voldemort explained some things to him before drugging him again.

Of course Voldemort wouldn’t actually explain them, Harry expected. He’d probably just drug him as soon as possible.

“While I do agree that the danger of being put in a coma again is way too high,” Issa was saying, “and I certainly don’t want that for my adopted son… we have to consider the plan.”

Everyone in the room turned to look at her.

“The plan?” Samenta repeated, at the same time as Harry. They exchanged a glance.

“The plan,” Issa repeated. “It is very suspicious that Harry doesn’t have anything that establishes him as a citizen. If any old Death Eater stops him at any point he’ll be caught, and it’ll be pretty obvious that he’s the one. We’re agreed that is bad?”

There were nods and murmurs of agreement. Harry’s murmur was more of an enthusiastic huff.

“So, regardless of whether or not our Lord and savior is or is not in love with our favorite coffin boy in some way – ”

Harry made an exaggerated gagging noise, and Issa glared at him for a split second.

“Regardless,” she continued, “of the reality of whatever that is, we’re not giving Harry back to him and Harry refuses to go turn himself in. Therefore we need to make Harry a citizen.”

“Oh yeah?” Mahi said. “And how are you going to do that, Issa? Are you secretly a Death Eater?”

“Me? A Death Eater? That’s hilarious. No,” she said, and she reached down into the pocket of her robe-jacket – Harry still wasn’t clear on the identity of that article of clothing, despite how much she wore it. “I have this glorious thing for him instead.”

She pulled out a pair of gloves from the one pocket, and tugged them on. Then, from the other pocket, she pulled out a little metal crescent and held it aloft.

Mahi made a strangled wheezing noise.

“Holy shit,” Samenta and Daumi said as one.

“I present you, my son, with your very own oracle,” Issa said grandly. She held the crescent out to him, and Harry stared at it.

“You… do I have to?” he asked quietly.

“Sorry, but yes. If you don’t have one you’ll be obviously illegal, if you ever want to go outside.”

“How did you get that?!” Mahi shrieked.

“See, this is why I didn’t tell you exactly what kinds of people I know, Mah,” Issa said shortly. She closed her eyes and took in a long breath. “Please stop freaking out. You know I’m not a goody-good and you need to stop being freaked out by everything not goody-good that I do in my life.”

Mahi didn’t say anything in reply. She looked like she dearly wanted to, though, and sucked in breaths like there was no tomorrow.

“Issa,” she said hoarsely. “ _Issa_.”

“Plenty of people have these, Mah. It’s safe.” Issa waggled the oracle at Harry. “Touch it. It needs to bond with you, so use your fingertips.”

Feeling ill, Harry stood. It reminded him, oddly, of waiting in the Great Hall in Hogwarts to be Sorted. He remembered feeling just this queasy then, worried that there had been some mistake. Worried that he shouldn’t even be able to be there, that he would be judged. He didn’t exactly worry that there had been a mistake, now, but he felt he was about to be judged. It was ridiculous – it was just a piece of metal. Yet…

He reached out and brushed his fingertips against the metal. It made a humming noise, and white lights blinked on across its surface. Issa tipped the rest of it into his hand – he caught it, surprised at the sudden fall, and then held it dumbly while it hummed and blinked, feeling a bit stupid.

“Do I have to – ”

It hummed so hard that it reminded him of a purring cat. The metal beneath his fingers shifted like liquid, until it was less a crescent and more a flatted sort of bowl. His fingers were pushed to the side by some unseen force, and a pale white screen, another shimmering one like the kitchen Sigil and the wæfæ, appeared within it. It slowly deformed until it had formed into a short piece of white text.

 _Hello!_ it said in Ilkis. Though Harry wouldn’t have really expected it to be English.

“Er. Hello,” he said to it.

It buzzed briefly. _Acquiring biodata. Do not release the oracle._

“Biodata?” Harry repeated slowly, sounding out the unfamiliar word.

Issa peeked over at the screen. “Let it do the thing. Then we can set up the info you’ll be using.”

It didn’t seem to be doing much of anything but humming, but Harry decided to take Issa at her word. The twins crowded up behind him to peek at the screen over his shoulder, and even Mahi eventually scooted closer and watched, though she kept her distance.

 _Hello_ , the screen said again, and the oracle buzzed. _Congratulations on taking charge of your citizenship. Please fill out the registry form so it might be filed with your city._

Issa gave a little whoop.

“Registry?” Harry repeated again. “Issa, what is this actually doing?”

“It sampled your blood-aura signature, your fingerprints, and your relevant DNA sequences so that it can only be accessed by you. Now we have to fill in the form, and a certain… er… individual will sneak it into the registry database so that it looks like you’ve lived here your whole life.” She flicked her fingers against the words that said ‘registry form’, and a glossy sheet of parchment snaked out of the back of the crescent from a slit between two metal plates. Harry grabbed for it before Issa could, and she grinned at him and waggled her eyebrows.

From over his shoulder, one of the twins pressed a fountain pen into his hands.

“Er,” Harry said slowly. “I haven’t practiced writing Ilkis much yet.”

“Don’t we use the same letters?”

“English didn’t have lines above the vowels sometimes. Or that – A combined with E one.”

“You can practice on this, then?” said one of the twins. A small notepad was thrust over his other shoulder.

“Guys, I kind of have my hands full here – ”

“You can just let go of the oracle now,” Mahi said slowly. “I think it’ll hover.”

“It’ll what?”

Issa slapped it out of his hand. To Harry’s surprise, it only fell about a foot before it slowed, then smoothly climbed back up and hovered just beside and in front of his left shoulder. It didn’t even bob in the air, but rested perfectly still, as if there were an invisible table there. When Harry moved to walk into the kitchen so he could have a flat surface on which to write, it swerved smoothly with him, maintaining its position relative to his body.

“That’s both very cool and kind of unnerving,” he muttered as he sat down.

The parchment itself was just a list of fields. The first one, however, was immediately difficult, for all that he was writing on a practice sheet before he did the final deed.

“… I can’t use my real name,” he said wretchedly.

“You can’t?” Mahi echoed. She’d sat down next to him, while Issa hovered, and the twins squeezed into the opposite chair.

“Voldemort knows my name,” Harry said firmly. “Can you imagine what he’ll do if somebody named ‘Harry Potter’ suddenly shows up in his – his citizen list? I couldn’t possibly be any more obvious. It would be idiotic.”

Suck it, Snape, he thought distantly. I can assess threats.

“Oh,” Mahi said. The twins were exchanging quick glances, having some kind of conversation between themselves.

“Did you ever use an alias while you were a fugitive?” Issa asked.

“Yes,” Harry said slowly. Evan Granger had been a particular favorite. “Is that safe, though?”

“Nobody except the Dark Lord would possibly remember it… were you caught while you were using it?”

“No,” Harry muttered. “I was noticed because of my face. Scar, you know.”

“Well, there you go, then.”

Carefully, Harry wrote down _Evan Granger_ on the scratchpad, and sat back to consider it. “That doesn’t look much like an Ilkis name, though. You guys don’t have English names.”

Daumi reached carefully over and tilted the scratchpad so she could look at it. “Ev-uhn… what?” She pronounced ‘Evan’ with too much emphasis on the second syllable.

“Granger,” Harry said.

“That sounds super not Ilkis. Don’t use that,” Issa said. “You could use Ev-ahn as your given name, though.”

“Evahn?” Harry repeated, trying to think of the Ilkis spelling that would make those sounds. He wrote _Eván_ down underneath _Evan_.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Issa said.

“You don’t have to tilt the accent so much when you write.”

“Mahi, leave him alone.”

“What’s so bad about Granger?” he asked.

“You don’t put an R after another consonant,” Issa said. “It looks weird.”

“What about… what about this, then?” Harry said. He wrote _Ganger_ underneath _Granger_.

“That one doesn’t go alone,” Samenta said, pointing to the G at the front of the word. “And not at the beginning of a word.”

Right, they didn’t really say G… Harry frowned down at the page.

“What about J?” he asked. “Or… K?”

“K’s better.”

 _Kanger?_ Harry wrote.

“Say,” Daumi asked. “Does that surname align with any Ilkis name?”

Before Harry could reply, or look for any guidance, Issa plucked the fountain pen from his fingers and scribbled down _K’ézz_.

“That looks absolutely nothing like Granger, Issa.”

“Maybe, but I think that’s how you’d probably have to spell it,” she said. A gloved hand slapped Harry cheerily on the shoulder. “So, how do you feel about being Eván K’ézz?”

“Fine,” Harry said, “Sure. Whatever.”

“Excellent!” Issa exclaimed. “Next one, then.”

Harry didn’t understand why ‘Sex’ and ‘Gender’ were separate, but he was a boy. For some reason the distinction seemed to be important to Issa and the twins, but eventually Mahi waved them all away and just told Harry to put Y for ‘Sex’, and M for ‘Gender’. Harry couldn’t see why, exactly, but she claimed that this way would be simpler, and he was starting to get a headache from the stress and all the talking going on over his head.

Then came a slot called ‘Age’.

Harry didn’t want to think about it. His chest started to get tight, but thankfully, Issa once again distracted him.

“How old were you in 1998?” she asked. “Last time you were awake.”

“Eighteen,” Harry said dully. He wrote the numbers out jerkily, trying to pretend that they were true. He didn’t want to think about the real time depth at play.

“And what’s your birth month and day?”

“July 31st.” At least that was easy.

Issa made a humming noise. “Nice. So. When did you get caught?”

“… October?” Harry said slowly. “Later.”

“So, if we pretend you were only asleep for four or five months from October to April, then you’re still eighteen. It’s May 27th, so you didn’t turn nineteen yet.”

Harry harshly underlined the eighteen he had written previously. “So, when it turns July 31st, 3016, I’ll be nineteen then.”

“Exactly.” Issa sounded pleased. Harry was just glad to get to the next field, which was birthdate – but then, they’d already decided he was going to turn nineteen in about two months. That meant that he’d have to have been born in… 2997? He double-checked his math, and scratched the number down.

“‘Physical’?” he said, squinting at the next note on the screen.

“Let me do that,” Issa said. “There’s a specific format. I’m good at them.” Harry handed her the pad and pen, and watched as she scribbled down _skin brown, hair black, eyes green, facial scar left forehead/eyesocket/cheek lightning_.

“Do we have to mention the scar?” he asked uncomfortably. “It’s sort of distinctive. Er. To Voldemort, it will be, I mean. It always used to be described as a lightning bolt in the 1990s.”

“I’ll try to look up a synonym that might work,” Mahi said. “It’s just a draft anyway.”

‘Mage’ was an easy yes, and then there were no more slots. Harry stared at the white screen, and then looked back at the pad of paper. Mahi reached down over his shoulder, scratched out _lightning_ , and wrote instead _yiaktápk_ , a word which meant absolutely nothing to Harry.

“Er,” he said, and pointed to the still-drying ink. “What?”

“It’s a word for the shape that lightning makes,” Mahi said. “It’s not a common word. That should be enough, hopefully…”

“Does that mean we’re done, then?” Harry asked.

“No, there’s way more – ”

Issa interrupted Mahi and assumed a lecturing tone. “The oracles generates its own ley,” she said, “and the citizen ID will be taken care of by my gal over in demographics. I can put in either Samenta and Daumi’s address if they’re alright with it, or an alternate address if we maybe want to be a little circumspect. He doesn’t have a job or any licenses or education so those are blank, and as for relatives…”

She slowly turned to Mahi, a grin spreading across her face.

“You’re going to ask me something terrible,” Mahi said flatly.

“Darling, I would never – ”

“You constantly do this!”

“Don’t you want a new cousin though?”

Harry stood up without really meaning to. “A what?” he cried.

Mahi caught his eye, then, and Harry felt his cheeks heating up. He looked away, hoping she hadn’t noticed, and then realized that she might take that to mean that he didn’t like her or something. “N – not that I don’t like – I mean – ” He stumbled over his words, trying to find some kind of explanation for his shock that didn’t involve an implication he didn’t want. Samenta and Daumi were sporting identical grins from the other side of the table – he distracted himself from his embarrassment by glaring at them.

“I guess technically anyone could be the cousin,” Issa said. She was making some sort of dramatic gesture that Harry couldn’t see properly in just his peripheral vision. “But we need _someone_ to be the cousin. People who don’t have any information in the ‘Relatives’ field tend to get earmarked for scrutiny and we definitely don’t want that for our son.”

Harry redirected his attention to the conversation and shook his head emphatically. “No, we don’t,” he said. “Also, Issa, you know I’m not your – ”

“Say it isn’t so!” she cried, throwing her arms around his shoulders before he could finish speaking. “So who wants to be the cousin? Mahi would be best because her parents are goody-goods so Harry comes out looking comparatively better, but it doesn’t actually matter.”

“Are you sure Mahi’s up for it?” Daumi asked.

“Yeah. You freaked out the most when we saved Harry,” said Samenta. They glanced over at her in a synchronised motion that made Harry wonder if they were just as linked as Fred and George had been, after all.

Regardless of whether or not it had been an interrogation tactic, Mahi glared back at them. “I know I’m not a good actor,” she said firmly. “But the whole point of this is so Harry can have a normal life, so – I can do it.” She glanced over at him hesitantly. Their eyes met again, but this time she was the one who looked away. “I mean, if he wants.”

“I think you’d probably be a much better cousin than Dudley,” Harry said. His chest felt tight again, but for the first time in a while, it wasn’t from a panic attack.

Issa threw one of her arms over Mahi’s shoulder and hauled her in. “Now we just have to plan our son’s excuse story,” she said, her smile going toothy.

“Merlin, _no_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for no Vóldamórt. :( He just didn't fit in this chapter. We'll see him next time.


	14. Fetesmakóri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _fetesmakóri_ (n.) an experience defying logic or reality, or lacking internal logic or reality; an altered state of consciousness or existance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which my chapters expand once again. This and the next chapter were a single chapter in my outline. *sigh*
> 
> Generic CW: Recreational drug use. **Please note the extended CW in the end notes if you feel the need.** It is in the end notes because of its slightly spoilery nature.

  


* * *

  


Twenty four hours exactly had passed since his announcement. Vóldamórt had for the most part spent it fretting, caught up in swells of a form of anxiety that was altogether unfamiliar to him, and unwelcome to boot.

Had he been convincing enough? Had he given enough emphasis to the lack of anger he felt for his person, for them to feel safe returning? Had he spoken in the right version of English for his person to understand that his words were meant for them, and them alone? Had his person known that they were ‘H’? He would have thought that there was some reason for his ancient selection of that letter, out of the – what was it then, twenty-six? – that would have been available at the time. Surely his person would know, then, of the reason for that selection. Surely they would be able to connect the letter to themselves, even if they had never heard Vóldamórt using it for their person.

But that only led the Dark Lord back around, once again, to the maddening question of why. Why a person, why anybody human at all, why a coffin, why a sleeping draught, why his panic upon seeing it empty, _why_. How he wanted nothing more than to apparate down to Ládá himself and search the city with his own hands! He was immortal – he barely needed sleep and food and water, even aside from any augments he might wish to take with him. He could scour the city. The globe scryer would tell him whether or not he was wasting his time, if he needed to switch his city of focus. If he went himself then he would find his person, even if it took him years –

But the KIY Summit started tomorrow.

He could not. B’itá was not a republic or democracy teeming with governmental representatives, not even a bi-corpus system such as Hánsæ’s. No – B’itá only had him. If he did not appear, then there was nobody who could take his place without it being noted with burning interest by every other country in the KIY. Not that they would dare to take any hostile or even unfriendly actions against him, not from only one missed Summit. But they would question him next year, he knew – they would probably question him even before next year. Their damnable curiosity would be utterly unbearable, and he could have no good answer, for what was he to say? ’Oh, never mind me, Paramount Trúc, I merely needed to track down a long-lost companion of mine and it was far more difficult than it needed to be because you see, this individual was from the 2100s, and I can’t remember the first two centuries or so of my life!’

He was immortal, true. And yet, two centuries was so long.

The visceral nature of this understanding brought Vóldamórt’s frantic pacing to a halt. His heart beat harshly in his chest, his breath came short, and his eyes threatened to burn until he blinked the sensation away. The itching was back, almost a surprise, for all that he’d gone a month barely feeling it.

To imagine that he’d gone a month without that feeling. All because of his person, and the fact of their existence – his person, who he still did not have, yet who even absent and mostly unknown to him had been able to so improve his mood. There was no other option, he needed them back! Surely his person knew how important they were to him?

He checked again, just to be certain, running frantically through every Civilian Interface activity log in Ládá.

Nothing.

For a small moment, Vóldamórt allowed himself to wonder why his person had not appeared. If they were not free to move, then – well, that would be that, as far as explanations went. But if they were free to move, then what could be the reason? Did they fear his anger? Had he not conveyed his desires well enough? But no, how could his offers be misinterpreted? He had promised only comfort, safety, and gratification! Vóldamórt was well acquainted, to be fair, with the process of offering succor without meaning it at all in order to induce cooperation, but – but he hadn’t been lying in this instance! He had been forthright and honest.

He just wanted his person back. It did not matter who they were or what their history was, at this point – he only _wanted_.

(What if, spoke a treacherous little voice in the back of his brain. What if they heard, and could move, but did not, because they do not want you anymore?)

“No,” he snarled to himself, speaking aloud without much thought to how sane or not he might look. “No, they can’t – they don’t get to decide that, I am their _Lord_.”

(But what if…)

He could barely think through the mental puzzle, made worse because he could not remember – if only he could remember! And through it all, the itching in his chest, just behind his heart, and that overwhelming feeling of being crushed by weight of things forgotten.

Not for the first time, Vóldamórt stared eternity in the face and found he could not laugh.

Well, he thought. At least he had accidentally saved up quite a lot of leeway over the month of May.

  


* * *

  


Eván K’ézz was a nobody. He had been raised by a family who never allowed him far from the house, for the simple fact that they lived quite illegally in the wilderness. Though his parents died when he was 15, he continued to putter around in the same wilderness cabin, quite alone and too afraid to set out for one of the alleged cities that existed out there in the world – full of people. He was not a proper citizen, technically, and he was bewildered by both modern technology, and all the fiddly little necessities that went into living in a city in the country of B’itá. He hadn’t even known about the Dálkót until just recently, if you could believe that.

His isolation had given him a slight accent. His ignorance made it possible, even likely, that he would commit social faux pas, or be clueless about a fact of life any other citizen would know from birth. His wilderness upbringing had left him educationless on any topic that really mattered, and if he wanted to have any hope of keeping up with his peers raised in cities, he would need to put in some intense cram schooling.

He was a mage, though, and he had four good friends who had been raised in a city. So at least he had that going for him.

  


* * *

  


On paper, it was all quite neat. Harry had to admit that Issa and the twins had really come up with something that did its best to cover every possibility. No matter how he managed to fuck something up – and Harry assumed that, given his previous track records in the 1990s, he would indeed fuck something up – there was an easy explanation, quickly available, that would be nowhere near as bad as the truth. A kid who had been raised in the wilderness, if illegally, was nowhere near as problematic as a millennia-old _kaunk’ev_ practically raised from the dead, and who commanded a strong interest from the Dálkót himself.

At least, that was how Issa put it.

Despite it all, Harry didn’t feel ready.

That was, he supposed as he stared out the kitchen window, the problem with it all. _Harry_ didn’t feel ready. Eván K’ézz was really a nobody, because he didn’t truly exist. Harry Potter existed, but shouldn’t – it wasn’t safe enough for him to exist as himself in Voldemort-Land. There was no room for him here, in a world of governmental oracles for every citizen, of broadcast screens in every household, of Dark Lords on spaceships. Eván K’ézz was a person who could exist safely enough in B’itá. That was why Harry would need to become him. But this wasn’t just a transformation to be used for a week, or a couple of days, or for a trip to Tesco’s. There was no safe house that he could return to and drop Eván off in the entry hall, like he would a pair of boots or a coat. He wouldn’t be able to return to being Harry Potter, even in the privacy of his own home. He would need to be Eván K’ézz forever.

Always.

Harry glanced again at the oracle hovering by his shoulder. It was properly set up, now. It seemed like it had a mind of its own, and yet, it eerily paralleled Harry’s own actions in a way that made him uneasy. When he stood up to go to another room, it was right there with him. It even followed him into the bathroom, which he found supremely uncomfortable, and when he laid down to sleep on the pull-out couch that had become his semi-permanent bed, it hummed down onto the arm nearest his head, or the top of his pillow, and rested there until he stood up. He didn’t need to do anything to tell it that he wanted it to turn its faintly blinking lights off because he was going to go to sleep. It just knew.

This was apparently normal. Samenta and Daumi hadn’t understood why he was so bothered when it almost presciently hummed over to the other side of a room he wanted to traverse, even before he’d done much more than think, and maybe glance over – before he’d even taken a step. “It’s creepy,” he’d insisted to their bewildered faces, until finally they’d all had to agree to disagree.

“They’re sort of like pets, aren’t they?” Mahi said when she came over the next morning – more helpfully, and yet with an implication that made all the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end.

“They’re not… _smart_ ,” Harry said. He glanced warily at the oracle that – he supposed – was now _his_ oracle. Its lights were blinking green to match his eyes, floating in a tight, lazy circle just above and to the left of his left shoulder.

“No, they’re only sentient,” Mahi said.

“Only – ?” Harry gaped. “But doesn’t that mean that they’re basically people?!”

“No, no,” she said, incomprehensibly, and frowned at him. “They’re not like people.”

“You just said they were sentient?”

“That’s not enough to make something a person,” Mahi kept frowning. “Or smart,” she added.

Harry left it alone in order to preserve his own sanity. Instead he moved to fiddling with the oracle, listening idly as his new cousin made commentary on its capabilites. Half of them he didn’t really understand, and most of the other half seemed far too complicated to be worth the effort. A very small amount of things seemed useful – he could use it like a sort of portable telephone, or perhaps a portable floo call, for all the sense that that made. Similarly to the telephone, there was a way to use it to write notes to other people, if your oracle knew of theirs. Mahi called it an ‘LNS’ – Harry thought it was a grand idea, and wished that they’d had something this complex and useful in his fifth year to help coordinate the DA. The little device was not, however, a portable portkey or capable of side-along apparition, which gave him nothing but a feeling of relief.

The longer he handled the oracle, the more aware he became of the reason that it had looked like the others were merely touching their oracles in random places when he had first awoken. Somehow his eyes were adjusting to – something. Harry wasn’t certain what to call that something, beyond the observation that what had once been empty space was now filled with flickering, shimmering impressions of things that he could swipe, tug, pinch, tap, and poke at. It was an unusual feeling – not really sight, but not only touch, either. A strange combination of both, combined with a strange sliding sensation along his fingertips, that almost made him feel as though he were holding his wand.

Merlin, he missed his wand.

“How are you feeling with your Ilkis comprehension?” Mahi asked suddenly, as he tested out the ‘LNS’ by sending her a small note that just said ‘Hello’.

“It’s alright, I guess,” he said. “Did that work?”

A reply note that was just the image of a smiling face shot across his vision unnervingly close to his eyes, as if pressed on them. “I just replied with a mózi,” she said. “Did you see it?”

“It was a face?” Harry asked. “Why is it – please tell me it’s not _on_ my eyes.”

“No, that’s just the default privacy setting, to be corneal-depth,” she said. “You can change it if you want, but somebody could lean in and read what you’re getting if you do…”

Harry grimaced. “I’ll just get used to it,” he said.

“If your comprehension is alright, then you should download some crams.”

“Crams?”

“Basic education modules,” she said. “They’re provided by the government, but they’ll be enough to get you enough to at least function, you know? If you ever want to get a job and move out.”

He hadn’t thought about that.

“I wanted to be an auror once,” Harry said dully. “Do you have aurors? Police?”

“What?”

“Who goes out and catches criminals? People who break the law?”

“Oh, there are Death Eaters who do that,” she said cheerfully. “It’s a branch of the military.”

Harry scowled and stared back down at his oracle. “Figures.”

  


* * *

  


On the Dark Mark, Vóldamórt enjoyed life in the only way he remembered. Everything going on in his mind was much calmer, now, and the itching in his chest had ebbed to nothing. If he concentrated, he could almost imagine he was happy.

“ _We should nap_ ,” hissed Nakíní for the third time in a row. “ _Come nap with me_.”

Vóldamórt peeked up at her from the protective cushion that his arms were forming for his skull. For a moment, his familiar had two heads. He blinked, and they were gone, resolved to one.

“ _You’re a hydra_ ,” he hissed back, and giggled. The joys of Parseltongue! It was so much easier to hiss coherently while staggeringly drunk than to speak any human language in the same condition. “ _Not anymore I mean_ ,” he hissed. “ _But you were_.”

“ _I don’t know what that means_ ,” she hissed back petulently. “ _Stop being confusing and nap with me_.”

“ _No_ ,” he hissed. He plopped his head back into his arms and sighed. “ _I’m good. This is good. Nakíní, do you love me? I love you_.”

“ _You’re dumb, Vóldamórt. You’re my human, but you’re dumb_.”

“ _Your human wants his human back, Nakíní,_ ” he whined.

“ _I still don’t see why you can’t just go take one. You have so many_.”

“ _It needs to be the right human, darling_ ,” Vóldamórt hissed. He slid his arm across the table a little, trying to figure out which bottle of wine had the most alcohol left in it. It wasn’t going very well. “ _A special one. The one I’m thinking of is special_.”

“ _Let’s nap_ ,” she hissed again as Vóldamórt took a swig from the bottle he had managed to locate. He wasn’t sure what kind of wine it was and didn’t really care. “ _I’m cold. You’re warm. The perfect solution is napping together_.”

“ _I hope they’re alright. What if they’re not alright? Darling, what if they hate me?!_ ”

“ _Nobody could hate you. You’re the best human_.”

“ _But I don’t remember why I put them in the box_ ,” Vóldamórt hissed. With effort he lifted his head up and propped it on a wavering hand that was propped on a wavering elbow, in turn propped on the table. The viewport glimmered with stars and app-trails. “ _What if it was because I was angry at them and couldn’t bring myself to kill them? What if they betrayed me and deserved it? What if they think I’m still angry at them?!_ ”

“ _Are you?_ ”

“ _No! I don’t even remember being angry!_ ”

“ _Then it doesn’t matter. Just tell that to the human when you see it next._ ”

But I don’t remember what my person looks like, he did not hiss. It was too much to put into words, even Parseltongue words, and his chest was clenching around his organs in an unpleasant way. He reached out for the wine, knocked over one bottle, stared dully at the spilled red liquid for a moment, and then successfully grasped another that was empty when he brought it to his lips. Disgusted with everything, Vóldamórt stood, and immediately had to stagger towards the wall.

“ _Are we napping now?_ ” Nakíní hissed happily.

“ _No,_ ” he hissed. How did one walk again? It had something to do with feet, and legs. He glared down at his toenails for a moment, but those were swimming and multiplying in hydra-esque fashion. It was making him even dizzier than he already was, so he looked away.

Maybe the alcohol could knock something loose in his mind. Maybe he would remember something significant, if he only looked at his person’s resting place of centuries with his faculties impaired. Yes, Vóldamórt thought, slowly making his egress from the sitting room with Nakíní slithering grumpily at his heels. Yes, that seemed like a good use of his time.

  


* * *

  


“I don’t know if I can do this,” Harry said.

The girls all looked at him. His oracle buzzed, almost sounding sad, if he wanted to ascribe emotions to a piece of metal and magic, and settled on his shoulder. Mahi nudged his other shoulder with her own.

“You have to go outside some time,” she said.

“I know that,” Harry said. It wasn’t quite the truth, as he stared at the door leading to the little alley street outside of Samenta and Daumi’s flat. He abruptly realized that he hadn’t been outside in almost a month, and then felt trapped, and far more ready to take that step. But then he remembered that the outside was Voldemort-Land – B’itá – and he ceased to want anymore.

“I know that,” he repeated. “It’s just – Do we know for sure that they don’t have my face?”

“I think it’s fairly clear they don’t,” Issa said from the threshold. She was leaning back against the door, hands in her robe-jacket-thing pockets, legs spread like she was preparing to block the door with her body weight. Her oracle began to crawl up her arm from where it had been latched around her wrist. “Or else it would be, you know, out there for concerned civilians to report on.”

“He could have just given it to Death Eaters,” Harry argued. “Or maybe he’s out there!” The thought flashed ice-cold down his spine, like a dementor’s rattle. “Oh Merlin, fuck, what if he’s out there?” Next to him, Mahi shuddered.

“Haven’t we been over this before?” Daumi asked.

“Like, a lot,” Samenta added.

“True,” Issa said. “My son, don’t you want to see real B’itá? There’s still some lockdown send-off parties happening! I mean, come on. I wanna go to the parties. I haven’t been able to go to the parties yet.”

“You want me to go to a party?” Harry said, aghast. “I might as well just yell from the rooftops that I’m not from around here, Issa.”

“No, actually…” Mahi said. Harry turned to her with a look of betrayal, and she squinted back at him. “Come on, H – Eván,” she said. Harry felt bewildered for a moment, before the last few hours worth of Get-Harry-Acquainted-With-His-New-Name emerged again in his consciousness. Right, he thought miserably. What had that all been for, if they were all still making mistakes? He should just stay inside.

“I thought you were the cautious one,” he told Mahi.

“I like to think so,” she said, affecting a false sort of haughtiness. “But most everyone will be pretty drunk or high or just adrenalized at the parties,” she went on. “If you act weird, or have sort of an accent, or miss something obvious, less people will notice, and anyone who does notice is more likely to write it off because they’ll assume _you’re_ drunk or high or adrenalized. We just have to stay away from any Death Eaters in uniform who won’t be impaired, which should be easy enough, since they’ll just be casually patrolling.”

“Don’t talk to me about Death Eaters,” Harry said. “I don’t even want to think about them.” True, the ‘modern’ uniforms that Mahi had shown him on her oracle looked different than the ominous, flowing robes Harry was used to. The masks were still starkly pale and vaguely skull-like, but they looked different, too.

He still wasn’t sure he could stay calm if somebody wearing that uniform came anywhere near him.

A hand made its way to his shoulder and squeezed. “You’ll be fine,” said Samenta. “And if it gets overwhelming or something, then you have all our oracle addresses, right? You can just message one of us and we’ll go sit with you somewhere quiet.”

Harry sucked in a breath, and held it for a while.

Wasn’t he in Gryffindor for a reason, after all?

“Okay,” he finally said. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Issa whooped, and kicked the door open to the ire of the twins. The alley-street beyond was just as covered in foliage and grape leaves as Harry remembered from the first time they had crept down it, him in soaked socks and an ancient robe, them in their dive uniforms. The light was different this time, though, an orange twilight rather than the bluish blackness of early morning.

Harry took a step over the threshold. His new boots hit the dirt path of the street, and he looked down. It looked like normal dirt, just like they’d had in the 1990s. The sky was pink and purple and orange, or at least, what he could see of it through the vines and foliage crawling up the walls was colored in that way. It was very pretty – strange to think that a place ruled by Voldemort could still be so pretty.

He stood for a moment, looking up between the flat buildings, and watching a side-lit cloud lazily scudding across the sky. A breeze made the grape leaves move, and the rustling noise was almost soothing.

Absolutely nothing unwelcome happened.

“Okay,” Harry muttered in English. He looked back down to see everyone looking at him intently.

“How is it?” Daumi asked.

Harry looked up at the sky again, then back to the girls. “It’s alright,” he said. He was beginning to feel like a berk, standing there dumbly and staring at the sky, so he forced himself to walk a few steps. The dirt crunched faintly under his feet, and a few curling vines brushed innocently at his arms as he passed by them.

“Okay,” he said again, but this time in Ilkis. “So, where are we going?”

Samenta and Daumi were locking up the door, but they glanced over at Issa, who had pulled out a little map from her oracle. It was multidimensional, as far as Harry could tell – he squinted at it, trying to grasp whatever information it was portraying, but couldn’t get very far.

“The party I’m thinking about is near the T’és,” she said. “I figure it’s the biggest one, so probably the best one to hang out in – it’s covering like five or six parks, too, so we can scoot if any one park has too many Death Eaters and is making Eván uncomfortable.”

“I appreciate that,” Harry said. The girls began to walk down the street, so he followed them, trying to beat some common sense into his brain. Respond to ’Eván’. Don’t mention ‘Harry’. Don’t stare _too_ much. Don’t engage Death Eaters.

He scooted a little bit closer to Mahi, so that they were walking side by side, and forced himself to breathe.

The larger street still wasn’t paved. It did, Harry noted, have patches of what looked like cobblestones laid into the earth here or there. They didn’t form a full surface for more than a few steps even at their largest, though, and Harry couldn’t see the point of them. Grasses and small flower-bushes sprung out of the dirt at the edges of the road where the footpaths were less trodden, and pressed against the edges of the buildings. Why, Harry wondered, were there so many plants? But there were a few porches for some of the houses on the street, or little balconies higher up on some of the buildings. Fairy lights hung in the air, suspended on nothing – so probably magic, Harry thought. Some of them were enclosed by paper lanterns, and drifted to and fro amidst the balconies, congregating around those balconies and porches that held actual humans on them.

A few such gatherings glanced down at Harry and the girls as they walked. Issa was chattering about the party, and what sorts of things some of her friends who had already been had seen there, but Harry couldn’t focus on it. He forced himself not to tense up, at least as much as he could force an issue like that, and tried to pretend he didn’t notice the looks. As far as he could tell, most of them looked away soon enough. His stomach still twisted over the attention.

Fortunately, nobody called out to them. Mahi consented to twining their arms together when he nudged her, and the human contact felt far more grounding than any sort of mental exercise that he could do. Harry felt his spine tensing less and less the farther they walked, and his breathing came easier.

The next road was even larger, and actually paved in the center. A small group of people stood around on the opposite side, smoking cigarettes, and Harry could hear the sound of rushing water. Their own group didn’t walk on the paved area, for some reason, as Issa shunted them to the right, and then immediately left at another Y fork.

“What’re…” Harry muttered to Mahi, after checking that nobody else was too near them, and gestured as unobtrusively as he could at the thin brick – sidewalks?

“For skaters,” she murmured to him. “Or bikers, maybe.”

“What about cars?” Harry muttered back.

“What? Like… train cars?”

“Nevermind.”

She looked at him for a while longer, but shrugged and said nothing more. It was probably for the best, because the groups of people were growing larger and more frequent. Harry and Mahi stayed at the back of their own group, as Issa, still staring at the map occasionally, took point. The twins frolicked with a strange levity that made Harry’s chest ache, darting away from the rest of them every so often to kick at a loose rock.

Following one of their expeditions, Harry noticed a man who had glitter in his beard. The teen stared for a moment, quite astounded, before remembering himself and quickly looking away before he could be noticed. He focused instead on their destination, and saw that they were coming to some sort of plaza. It was filled with people, many of whom were manning small carts or vending stands, and trying to hawk their wares off on passersby. The tones and cadence of Ilkis were unfamiliar to Harry’s ears when presented all as a babble, but at least watching so many episodes of Sen-F’en Waves had paid off – if he concentrated, he could hear the individual vendors and understand what they were saying.

It all reminded him of Diagon Alley, and he felt another punch to his stomach.

“Wait a minute,” Samenta said as she returned, having successfully beaten Daumi to kicking a particularly large rock off of the arched bridge they were currently on, and into whatever waterway was rushing along below them. “Issa, are we going through the apport?”

“Do you wanna?” Issa asked, as Harry frowned to himself over the word. He’d never really inquired as to its meaning. “I was just figuring we’d pool our money-cards and grab one of the big lux taxis.”

“I hate apparating,” Mahi said. Oh, so it was an apparition point?

“Is it side-along apparition, or real apparition?” Harry asked, feeling confident about the inoffensive nature of this question. “If we have to do side-along then I hate it.”

“What’s side-along?” asked Daumi. Harry stared.

“Do you not have – ”

“It’s fine, Eván, we’re not gonna take the apport,” Mahi interrupted. “Issa, go find a taxi that’ll hold all of us at once.”

“Bossy, bossy,” Issa said with a teasing smirk. She scampered off once they reached the plaza, though, and quickly vanished into the crowd.

“I’m confused,” Harry murmured.

“Can we talk about it later?” Mahi asked.

“Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

She tugged him over to an empty spot near the waterweed-studded fountain in the middle of the plaza. On one side of them was a vendor selling, as far as Harry could tell, hand-crafted jewelry, and possibly a few powdered gemstones on the side that Harry felt certain were being hawked as potions ingredients. He wasn’t sure that was how potions worked, but he didn’t really have the energy to question it. To their other side was another gang of people, also smoking, but this time Harry wasn’t sure if they were cigarettes. The smell was nothing like what he remembered of cigarette smoke from Aunt Marge’s visits to the Dursley house. He found that it wasn’t quite as disagreeable as cigarette smoke, though, so at least there was that.

One of the women, a pale lady with short, blood-red hair that _had_ to be dyed, caught Harry’s eye despite his attempts not to stare. She smirked at him and held out the still lit not-cigarette. “Fancy a drag, kiddo?” she asked.

“Er,” Harry said, feeling extremely uncomfortable.

“I’ll take one please,” Samenta interjected, hand shooting into the air.

The woman’s lips pursed. “I only offer hits to men and _nabá_ ,” she said. What was a _nabá_ , Harry thought.

“That’s pretty sexist of you – ”

“Sorry,” Harry interrupted, glancing nervously between the woman and Samenta. “I was just taking in the smell, not trying to – er – say that I wanted your stuff or anything.”

The tension thankfully eased as the woman laughed and took another drag of her not-cigarette. “You kids are hilarious,” she said, and reached over as if to ruffle Harry’s hair. He panicked, probably not very subtly, and leaned away from her. She didn’t seem offended, though, merely retracted her hand and grinned at him again. “Well, if you change your mind about that hit, let me know.”

“We’re going to a party,” Harry said hesitantly. Maybe he could finish an entire interaction with a Voldemort-Lander without fucking up anything, or letting on that he was himself. “So I probably won’t, but thanks anyway.”

That seemed to end the conversation, as the woman returned to her chat with the men with her. A few minutes later, marked by Samenta and Daumi pointing out people they knew in the crowd if they caught sight of them, Issa returned, darting around groups of people like a snitch.

“Got a big taxi,” she puffed, grinning at them as she skidded to a stop. Harry wondered idly if taxis were still yellow. “Eat your heart out, T’én. C’mon you lot.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that about the Governor,” Mahi said, with the air of somebody who knew that she’d lost the argument ages ago.

“Hold up,” said the woman from before as they all made to leave the fountain. Harry whirled, heart in his throat, and despite himself started to map the area as best he could. There were a large number of bridges and roads that came to this plaza, so escape would hypothetically be easy. But against that issue, there was a building to the side of the plaza that had a large banner with a skull and snake draped across it. Harry recognized from all his children’s books, and from Mahi’s quick visual tour of governmental iconography, that that probably meant it was an Interface Office. Which meant, of course, that there were Death Eaters inside.

The best course of action, Harry thought feverishly, was to make sure this woman couldn’t yell anything too loudly and get somebody on the other side of the fountain running in there to try and get a Death Eater to do crowd control. He took a step away from the fountain and the woman, hooking his arm firmly into Mahi’s. The woman’s mouth opened again.

“Are you Issa Ánkonof?” she said accusingly.

What?

Harry stared at Issa. Mahi and the twins stared at Issa, too. Issa looked blandly irritated.

“Who’s to say?” she said, making a dramatic shrugging gesture.

The woman’s eyes narrowed at her. “I saw you on Mákta Ánkonof’s memory slideshow. Where is she?”

Issa shifted from flippant to blank. “Mákta, you say?”

“You are related to her. She owes me a crate of _tælsabá_ – ”

“Not my problem! Auntie Mákta is a basket case,” Issa said, extremely quickly. She reached out and yanked firmly on Harry’s arm. “Gotta go, best of luck, if she’s ghosting you you’re gonna have to hire a Snatcher to hunt her down.”

And they were being hurried away before Harry could really process that it hadn’t been about him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Unhealthy/disordered drug use/abuse.**
> 
>  
> 
> I personally am drug positive, so long as people doing drugs pursue healthy practices and indulge responsibly. I do not condone doing drugs in the way or for the reasons that Vóldamórt does them.


	15. Yiab'ísá

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _yiab'ísá_ (n.) the ability to do something with could not be done previously; a removal of restrictions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not terribly satisfied with this chapter, but I don't think re-working the draft would get me anywhere. So, here is the next bit!

  


* * *

  


Harry glanced back at the plaza as they reached the taxi, which didn’t look much like a taxi at all, given that it hovered in the air and was much flatter than a car would have been. To his relief, the red-headed woman wasn’t following them. To his consternation, there was a Death Eater walking across the plaza. They weren’t headed for Harry and his friends, nor even looking their way, which was the only thing which prevented Harry from panicking and vaulting over the low railing into the roaring waterway below.

“Is this going to fly?” he asked Mahi in a whisper, to distract himself.

She gave him a look that Harry couldn’t quite define. “Yes,” she murmured, and the look changed to encouraging. “Will that – don’t worry, it’s really safe.”

Oh, Harry thought. Was she afraid he would be worried about falling?

“I’m not worried,” he told her and smiled. To his surprise, it felt genuine. “They just didn’t have flying cars in – er – back in the day.”

He fought the urge to take another glance over his shoulder, knowing that it could come off as suspicious, and lost decisively. The Death Eater was closer, but still not focusing on them at all. They walked with purpose, stride long. Harry tried to calculate where they were headed, and could only think they were aiming for the bannered interface office across the plaza. At least, he dearly hoped that was the case.

“Eván,” Mahi hissed. A hand latched onto his arm and forced him to turn and look at the rushing water. “Come on, I think I saw one of the naiads,” Mahi said more loudly.

“You have naiads in your waterways?” Harry muttered, but allowed himself to be led.

“You can’t stare at Death Eaters like that,” Mahi hissed to him as they stood just within the zone where the spray could rise up and speckle against their cheeks. “Not looking like that.”

“What was I looking like?” Harry said mulishly.

“Like – like you expected to be bitten by a venomous snake or something,” Mahi huffed.

Together they stared down at the water for a while as Harry struggled with himself. Mahi was right, he knew – he couldn’t afford to give himself away so obviously. Yet he felt resentful all the same. He didn’t appreciate feeling that way, but there it was.

“I know,” he muttered.

“Uh-huh.”

Issa waved them over to the taxi, so they went, clambering into the back seats as Issa and the twins had already taken the three in the front. Issa tapped a blinking screen – “Control panel,” she chirped to his bewildered look – and the whole contraption hummed and lifted with a buzz of magic that Harry felt all the way to his bones. Then they were flying, and for a moment, Harry was so excited that he forgot to be resentful.

“Look,” he went on, once they were away from the plaza, safe from that particular Death Eater, and safe from being overheard. “I know, Mahi, but – look, it’s just the mask, alright?” he tried. “I feel like I should be hiding the moment I see it, and drawing my wand if they might even possibly see _me_.”

“Well, you don’t need to do that anymore,” Mahi said.

Harry grumbled and turned to stare out at the passing landscape instead.

Ládá was overall a different color from London. Harry hadn’t expected that you could make a city, full of human buildings and people, be any color overall but grayish and metallic. London in the 1990s had been like that, the few times he had been inside of it, and the once that he had seen it from the air on a broomstick. Lights had glinted off of the shiny glass that made up muggle buildings, and countless dots of light – cars – had raced back and forth on the motorways.

It was late, and Ládá had artificial light, as well. But it wasn’t sharp – it did not glint off of glass. It was suffused and scattered about by the dark green of plants and trees that wrapped around buildings and even antennae and covered them. Harry thought he could see buildings, but he couldn’t be certain, because their outlines were not sharp and clear the way he would have expected a building to be. Instead, his eyes struggled to pick them out from underneath distorted and fractal shapes caused by walls of ivy and twisted trees somehow growing sideways into the air. It looked overgrown. He kept expecting to see ruined stones, but even where thick rivers rushed through the growth of buildings, nothing was crumbled or weathered.

He felt as though he were in the countryside, or at least what he imagined being in the countryside would feel like. But he was in a city.

They finally rose high enough to join some sort of line of traffic. There were other vehicles similar to the one in which Harry and the girls sat, of similar shape and yet with different sizes and slightly different proportions each. The vehicles – Harry decided to just call them cars for now – followed curving patterns in the air that Harry didn’t see any indication of. Was Issa just following the other cars? What if there was an accident?

A thick, boxy vehicle shaped something like a cigar whizzed above their heads with a high-pitched whining sound. There was a flaring line of pale blue lights across the bottom which flashed across Harry’s face before he could react and squint, and then faster than it had appeared, it was gone, carving a long arc through the air ahead of them and disappearing behind a massive tower studded with ferns that must have been far larger than any fern Harry had ever seen.

“What?” he gasped out, pressing himself back into his seat.

“Just a mag-lev!” Samenta called back to him.

“A what?” Harry repeated. He looked at Mahi nervously. “What’s a mag-lev?”

“It’s short for magnetic levitation,” Mahi told him.

“What’s it – ”

“They’re just cargo trains.”

“The driver shouldn’t be going so bloody fast,” Harry grumbled.

“Driver?” Mahi blinked at him. “They’re unpiloted.”

Harry did not find this at all reassuring. “Isn’t that dangerous?” he asked. “What if – how does it know where to go, anyway?”

“It’s got a built-in industrial oracle, I expect,” Mahi said. She glanced across the way, and Harry looked to see another train of whizzing vehicles – _mag-levs_ , he supposed – scything between buildings. The silhouette of a tree wobbled in the wake of it, and Harry shuddered to imagine that there was no human even touching the thing’s control panel. “All vehicles do,” Mahi went on. “I mean, imagine having to drive it yourself!”

“That’d be safer, I think,” Harry griped, and slid farther down into his seat. It was strange to be wary of being in the air, but this was nothing like a broom. A broom was no longer than you, ideally, or at least not by much. It was thin and extremely easily maneuverable, capable of making sharp turns at a moment’s notice or touch. The car they were in didn’t feel nearly as maneuverable, and if push came to shove, Harry wasn’t sure he’d know anything about how to drive it, either. He at least hoped that Issa was a good driver –

But he looked over and she was not touching the control panel. Her hands were behind her head, and she was reclining in her seat.

“Oh Merlin,” he said faintly. “Does nobody drive anything anymore?”

Nobody answered him. Eventually, he tried to focus on only the passing scenery. A few times the car jumped _up_ and merged with a lane higher in the air, a process which had Harry’s stomach swooping with both glee and terror every time it happened. He was not wearing a seatbelt, the way he remembering wearing them in Uncle Vernon’s car, and the thought that he might tumble out of the open-topped vehicle, if he only leaned over too far, was invigorating.

A figure dressed in a dark orange bodysuit with bright, luminescent yellow strips across it leapt off of a building across the way. Harry watched, mesmerized, as they plummeted, twisting in the air, until a board slipped off of their back and slotted itself beneath the figure’s feet. They merged with the lane of traffic below them, bobbing and weaving between vehicles until Harry had lost sight of them.

“What was that?” he asked breathlessly.

“What?”

“Somebody on a sort of board,” Harry said. “Like a skateboard?”

Beside him, Mahi shuddered. “Ugh, that’s lane-skating. It’s so dangerous.”

“It looks like fun,” Harry said firmly. “How do we get things set up so I can give it a go?”

“ _Fun?!_ ”

Harry was reminded so strongly of Hermione that he almost cried as he laughed. It was a curious sensation, as if his body couldn’t decide which emotion to feel more fully. Eventually he could only bend over and wheeze wordlessly into his hand.

A hand made its way to his shoulder. “Are you alright?” Mahi said.

“Fine,” Harry gasped. He forced himself to sit back up, and rubbed at his eyes. “Just a memory. You – sounded like one of my oldest friends for a moment.”

“Oh,” Mahi said.

They swept underneath a bridge, so close to the dangling vines that Harry could have sworn one trailed through his hair. The sun was setting much faster now, forcing long shadows across the buildings that dappled across the plant life. Harry wondered whether or not there were windows for the taller ones – he couldn’t see any evidence for it, but magic could do a lot of things, couldn’t it?

He looked up. The sky was finally empty of obstacles, and spread out undisturbed above him. To the left, a blue tinge was beginning to creep over the horizon. To the right, the sun had mostly vanished, but the sky remained orange and red, reflecting only faintly off the few and tiny clouds scudding across the sky. Harry followed one of them with his eyes, picking out one in particular that seemed to be acting unusual. It was darker, almost black, as if a storm cloud, and the red of it was sharper than the red of the other clouds.

Then it moved, faster than its surroundings, and Harry squinted at it. He couldn’t quite make out the shape of it. Was it not a cloud, but a satellite of some sort?

It shifted again, and seemed to appear in a sort of arrowhead shape.

An image from one of the children’s books clicked in the back of Harry’s brain. He froze.

The Dark Mark, wasn’t it called? Voldemort’s – spaceship. He still felt ridiculous thinking it, even as the black arrowhead shape moved a bit further across the sky. Was it circling the city? Merlin, he hoped not.

“G – guys,” he muttered.

“Hm?” most of them hummed. Daumi didn’t look around, though.

“That – ” He couldn’t finish his thought. Instead, he pointed up at the black shape.

Beside him, Mahi made a whimpering noise. “Shut up, Mah,” Issa muttered.

Their taxi fled under another bridge, and the spell was momentarily broken. Harry finally tore his eyes away to see Mahi staring fixedly ahead at the lane of cars before them, and the twins and Issa looking back and the pair of them worriedly.

“That was actually the Dark Mark,” Harry said, trying to remain calm.

“Yep,” said Issa.

They were free from the bridge now, so Harry turned his eyes skyward once again. The shape was still there, a bit to the right of where it had been, and turned a bit, as if changing the direction in which the arrowhead pointed. Harry held his breath, but nothing happened.

Voldemort, he thought vaguely, was up there. Voldemort lived there. He was, technically, looking at Voldemort’s house.

“It’s smaller than I expected,” he mused.

The twins made a choking noise as one, and Harry looked back at them. Everyone was staring at him once again, as if they were back in the sitting room, having that first conversation about how Harry was a _kaunk’ev_.

“What?” he asked.

“You – ” Daumi said.

“That – ” Samenta said.

“It’s not small,” Issa said flatly. “It’s just very, very far away right now. If it was as close as it could get, it would block out most of the sky over the city. It’s _big_.”

Block out –

Harry snapped his head back to stare at the ship once again, this time, for the first time, in muted horror. Block out the sky – just like the shadow that had been following them in the forest. Something that could turn the entire sky black, and glow faintly red.

“Is that what was following us in the forest?” he whispered.

Nobody said anything. The silence, though, would have been confirmation enough even without the faint nods.

Harry contemplated asking what they thought Voldemort might be doing, having it circle around like that. Those conversations had always been some of the most entertaining to be had whilst on the run from a Dark Lord, back in 1997 and 1998 when that had been a concern. Harry thought idly of many nights spent, happily enough for their situation, huddled around a low fire in some abandoned or empty muggle building and bantering about whatever Voldemort was up to at that very moment. The idea of Voldemort drowning in paperwork and Ministry bureaucracy had always been a particular favorite, one that Ron had taken up with gusto. Harry and Hermione had laughed themselves silly at the red-head’s impressions and exaggerated lisping, used as a stand-in for Voldemort.

Yet the solemnity that had overtaken the taxi dissuaded him. The thoughts of Ron and Hermione had hollowed out some place in the core of him, as they seemed to do whenever he had them. He looked to the side of the car again, watching the other lanes full of streaking light and glinting runes in the distance, and tried to ignore the sensation of a wand poised over him, pointed right at the nape of his neck.

They finally landed in another plaza, though this one was without a fountain in the center. Instead, it was a ring of cobblestones around a single massive tree and a patch of grass, flowered bushes, and ferns. He copied the twins and hopped out without opening the door, though Mahi opened it and slipped out more elegantly than the three mages had. Issa was last out, practically vaulting over the hood of the vehicle. The moment her feet touched the ground, it began to rise again. Harry watched it against the increasingly darkening sky until it had joined another lane of traffic and was swept out of sight. Instinctively, he tried to search the sky for any sign of the Dark Mark – the ship, not the logo, – but forced himself to stop.

Issa had the map out again. “So,” she was saying. Harry forced himself to wander over and pay attention. “I was thinking we’d go to the top park first, since that’s got the most trees and hedges so we can sneak away from crowds if one of us gets overwhelmed.” Harry imagined she meant him, as he couldn’t imagine any of the others being overwhelmed. He couldn’t decide how he felt about the special treatment.

“Best not,” called a voice from the edge of the little plaza.

Harry tensed. He didn’t force himself to relax, because Mahi and the twins had also tensed up for a moment. But then Samenta and Daumi relaxed again. Issa hadn’t tensed at all, and instead swung around to greet the voice.

“Zósif!” she cried. “What are you doing skulking in the shadows like that?” It was the same tone of voice that she tended to use, Harry had learned, when she was smirking fiercely – an expression that usually showed her teeth.

A man emerged from around the corner of a walkway. He was tall, with broad shoulders and dark skin of a similar tone to what Hermione’s had been. His arms had spinning white tattoos all across them, as if pretending to be sleeves for the otherwise sleeveless tunic that he wore.

He grinned at Issa, who promptly flung herself at him. He caught her with an oof noise. “Really, Issa,” he said. “I think you’d be better off going to the red park first.”

“Oh?” she asked, kicking one leg out and apparently making a valient effort to pick him up from the waist. “Why should we do that?”

“You should do that because somebody started passing around a henk-mái hybrid in the top park, and there are a ton of Death Eaters doing crowd control,” he said, enduring her efforts with cheer.

“Well that sucks,” Issa said, and dropped him – or would have dropped him, if she had managed to pick him up at all. With a huff, she danced away.

“Hey Zósif,” said Samenta and Daumi in chorus.

“What’re you doing here?” Daumi went on.

“You know him?” Harry muttered, leaning over in the hopes of being quieter.

Issa made a dramatic gesture, as if presenting the man – Zósif, Harry figured – for inspection. He suddenly looked a bit sheepish, and put a hand to the back of his head awkwardly. “This is Zósif Hákkt,” she said. “He is one of my very favorite friends and also a genius. I am shocked, honestly shocked, to hear that you twins already know him. Zósif, say hi.”

“I don’t think I count as a _genius_ ,” Zósif said. “Hey, Sami, Dau. How’re your fingers doing?”

“Really nice,” Samenta smirked. “Sure came in handy recently.”

“I’m glad!” he grinned again. Harry noticed that his teeth were very white – he had a handsome smile. “What about you two?” he asked, turning on Harry and Mahi.

Harry was about to say ‘I’m Harry’. He bit his tongue just in time, and tried to think about what he was going to say. Mahi spoke instead, mumbling her way through a greeting. Harry took a glance and saw that her cheeks were a bit red.

“Do you live on L-72?” Zósif asked. “Anywhere near the S-300s?”

“Er,” Mahi said.

Issa cut in. “Mah’s new to the slummy life,” she said airily. “Her fam is UBI 4.”

“Really?” Zósif asked, his face twisting into an expression of concern. “They kick you out or something?”

“No, no,” Mahi said, smiling sadly. “I just like old things. They didn’t really approve of me being a relic diver for even a little bit of time, but they can’t say anything about it now, can they?”

“Wow, imagine not getting kicked out at – ”

Zósif elbowed Issa hard in the side, and she shut up. “How about you?” he asked, turning to Harry.

“I’m Eván,” Harry said. He tried as hard as he could not to slip on the still slightly alien name. “Eván K’ézz. Er, nice to meet you? Issa’s become a good friend of mine really quickly.” He tried for a smile as he continued talking, hoping that it wouldn’t come off as nervous.

To his relief, the man only glanced at Issa, who nodded. Whatever that meant, it must have been alright, because he grinned at Harry and offered a closed fist in his direction. “Yeah, she certainly does that, doesn’t she? Gimme a bump, Eván,” he said.

“Er,” Harry said, flushing a little. “Sorry?”

“Like this,” Zósif said, and with his other hand bumped his knuckles together. The closed fist was offered again, and Harry hesitantly extended his own, and gave the requested bump of knuckles. “Yeah!” Zósif said, and laughed.

He had a nice laugh, Harry thought. He found himself grinning a little as he listened to it more, even despite the grief still gnawing at his intestines, and the thought of Voldemort circling above his head. At least right now, Voldemort didn’t know where he was, and had no reason to look down at the city as far as Harry could tell. He knew from Mahi’s brief coaching sessions and the children’s books that Voldemort wasn’t in the habit of wandering around on the ground anymore, as far as anybody knew. There was that fact that nobody remembered what he looked like, but Harry figured that he might be able to use that to his advantage if for some reason he ever happened to spot an incognito Tom Riddle in the crowd. Maybe the dictator had a reason for not showing his face – maybe he wouldn’t be willing to blow his own cover just to chase Harry.

It would give him some time in a worst-case scenario, if nothing else.

“Red park it is, then?” Daumi was saying. Harry caught himself, and realized he had been left half-grinning awkwardly in Zósif’s general direction for far too long. Face burning with embarrassment, he forced himself to look away. He might have gotten away with it if only Mahi hadn’t made a concerned noise, causing everyong to turn and look at him.

“Er,” Harry stuttered. “Sorry. Spaced out for a minute. You said we’re going to the red park?”

He thought about asking what was at the red park as opposed to the top park, but refrained. He didn’t want to bollocks it up by putting his foot in his mouth and trying to have a full conversation with a stranger around. But then again, he thought wearily as they wandered down a grassy slope and away from the slightly elevated cobblestone landing circle, he would have to speak with people who didn’t know anything about how illegal he was at some point.

‘Illegal’. Harry frowned at the word that had passed through his own mind. He didn’t think there would be any explicit laws against his existence… but then again, Voldemort was in charge. Knowing him, he could have merely made a statement, and immediately all the laws of the country would have changed. It was an infuriating thought, even more than the low level of paranoia that tried to rise in him again.

Entering the park had helped, though. The sky was visible, but there were trees now, and a rushing river off to the side. The path wasn’t paved, merely composed of trodden-down dirt and stones, the grass kept from living there only by the continued activities of human feet. Here and there they passed by people, sometimes sitting quietly in groups, smoking or talking amongst themselves, and sometimes piled together into loud, raucus gatherings. Harry suspected these of being drunk, considering how the pace of one man caught in the middle of telling a story was staggered as he wandered around in the middle of the circle, gesturing. Harry tried to listen in for a moment and discovered he was telling a story about something (apparently ridiculous) that had happened at his work as a result of the lockdown.

He felt suddenly and inexplicably guilty.

Instead of listening further, he looked back at his own group. Mahi was still at his side, shoulder almost brushing against his every now and then. Zósif, Issa, and the twins had fallen directly into a conversation about something called ‘ossirunes’, which Harry couldn’t quite grasp. Apparently the twins had gotten some from Zósif, though, and were quite happy with them.

Zósif didn’t seem like a bad person. His smile was nice, and though Harry couldn’t see it at the moment, his voice sounded happy and carefree all the same. His shoulders bobbed and shrugged as he walked, moving in time with the little hand gestures he made to accompany his speech. He knew Issa, and Issa had been the one to get Harry his oracle. But then again, Issa had also said she knew a lot of people.

He wasn’t sure if he should be really focusing on not slipping up, or if he could relax. It was hard to tell.

  


* * *

  


He was not in his bed. But this was not an unusual experience for Vóldamórt, considering how often he fell asleep on one or another of the various couches – reclining or otherwise – spread throughout his suite. Therefore, he considered the experience further before he committed to opening his eyes and invoking the headache that was certainly preparing to drill into his temple. He could feel a slight cushioning beneath him, so he was not likely on the floor. His left leg was draped over something, and slightly elevated, which suggested to Vóldamórt a couch. But the surface beneath the bend of his knee felt hard, which should not have been possible. All his couches had padded arms for this very reason.

He tried to move a hand up to shield his eyes from the worst of the light. Instead of going smoothly, his elbow knocked into something hard, and he realized abruptly that his spine was even more twisted up than his usual sleeping positions. Specifically, his neck was bent, and his head was propped against something hard. Upon this realization, his whole body began to ache far more than necessary for a hangover.

“ _Oracle,_ ” he hissed. There was an answering hum of magic from somewhere to the left of him, and a pulse of energy against his spine. Both of them prodded at him – he answered the bodyguard, not the secretary, and pushed it for ethanol-bonding nanites. There was a crawling sensation near the top of his spine, between his shoulder blades, as they diffused into his bloodstream. After about a minute of waiting, the throb hanging over his eyes like a poised wand eased. The small amount of light passing through his eyelids no longer burned, and Vóldamórt warily opened them.

He saw black velvet. It was far too close to his eyes, and only with a clumsy, disoriented effort did he finally wrench his body free of the strange hard edges of whatever furniture he’d fallen behind. His spine still ached, and there was a lingering muscle crick just above the nape of his neck. Vóldamórt reached back and tried to dig his fingers in – the flesh was hard, and did not relax even when he kneaded at it.

A headache had still formed, but not one so violent that he was going to vomit. The Dark Lord squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead on his knee before finding the strength to look up and around himself.

He was sitting in the coffin that had once held his person.

As he stared down at his current situation, brain working agonizingly slowly, his oracle bumped against his shoulder and hummed anxiously. Nakíní’s head rose from over the edge of the coffin, tongue flickering, and she regarded him with a look that his every instinct labeled a glare.

“ _I cannot believe you,_ ” she hissed.

“ _What?_ ” he asked dazedly.

“ _You said ‘No, Nakíní, you can’t get in the box,_ ’” she hissed. “ _‘It doesn’t work that way,’ you said. And then you sleep in the box anyway._ ”

“ _I did not intend to –_ ”

“ _You did so intend! Well? Will you finally stop moping now that the box was not-empty for a night?_ ”

“ _No_ ,” Vóldamórt snarled. “ _This fixes nothing._ ”

Considering the ill-thought-out decisions of his drunken self was not an activity Vóldamórt enjoyed or found at all useful, so he didn’t consider why he had apparently chosen to fall asleep in the coffin. It wasn’t even sized correctly for him – he was taller than it was, broader in the shoulder and chest by just a bit. No wonder one of his legs had been slung over the edge.

That meant his person was smaller than him. Shorter, slimmer. He wondered about that for a moment as he stumbled out of the coffin and onto the carpet. What had the prediction of his person’s height been, anyway? 168 centimeters, his oracle sent through his mind, and of course Vóldamórt knew that he himself was roughly 185 centimeters tall, so that would mean…

He held a hand out hesitantly at a height just above his shoulder. That would be his person’s height, he thought, and tried to imagine looking down into another human face.

His head rang with a bit more urgency, so Vóldamórt forced his way to the bathroom before thinking of anything else, and downed two sober tabs. Then a glass of water – then another. The illusos of his oracle wobbled back into focus as his eyes re-adjusted, and his skimmed his feed while trying to rub all signs of tiredness off his face.

Had the bags under his eyes gotten darker, or was it the position of the sun?

Fine, he thought, as he applied concealer to hide certain facts of his appearance. Alisias had sent a morning report, but nothing was marked urgent or emergency, so he ignored it for now. His alarm was trying to tell him that he was fifteen minutes behind schedule, and the bridge was preparing for an apparition, but he didn’t want to go anywhere. His neck was still stiff, and looking around was more difficult than it ought to be. But the little alarm, ‘KIY 02:00 B-LST’. As if he didn’t have better things to do than hop forwards eight hours and pretend that it was a reasonable time of mid-morning rather than barely a couple of hours past midnight.

But then again, there he went once more, pretending to have a regular sleep schedule.

Instead, he focused on braiding his hair and applying the extra ward-ornamentation he usually used in public. A third glass of water came with him out of the bathroom and into the closetroom, where he peeled off his loungewear and instead allowed his battle robes to crawl across his body in their more innocuous form that pretended at being fancy dress robes. The Dark Lord wished to run a fingertip across the pale, whitish slivers of wood sewn into the back, but he forced himself to stop because he was running behind. An extra cloth dress robe of deep gray stitched with gold went over the battle robes, and a black and draping cloak that glittered just enough to remind Vóldamórt of a starfield went over that.

He stared at himself in the mirror and pulled the hood over his head, so that the refractive glow of his eyes could be enhanced by the shadows that the fabric cast over his face.

His cheekbones were getting a tad sharper than he thought they might have been a century ago. Perhaps he ought to eat more. Overall, though, he could find nothing to complain about.

He certainly didn’t _look_ like he had spent the night passed out in a coffin, and thankfully, it wasn’t as if Nakíní could tell anyone about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The absolutely wonderful sourboy has crafted fanart of chapter 4, _Siati_. :happy-sobbing: Please give them love and support their art! The link is now in the endnotes of that chapter.


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